Find A Way
by SilverShadow44
Summary: Artemus Gordon often makes references to his Great Aunt Maude, but who was she? What role did she play in her heroic young grand-nephew's life? And in Jim West's, for that matter?
1. Great Aunt Maude

**FIND A WAY**

Arte couldn't be dying. Not here. Not now, when the war was almost over.

"Hold on, hold on," Captain James West urged, though the unconscious man couldn't possibly hear him. It was an instruction for West himself also as he struggled to hold his badly wounded friend steady while the army wagon found every rut and pothole on its trundling way to the Petersburg military hospital. Captain West had never been a praying man before, but he found himself thinking a prayer now. _Please don't let my friend die . . . ._ West did his best to cushion Captain Gordon as the wagon's wheels went over yet another vicious bump. His eyes looked down at the bloody patch of fabric covering Arte's side and his heart sank. A limb, if injured, could be sawn off to save a man's life. But you couldn't saw off a torso. If the bullet had pierced a vital organ, Captain Artemus Gordon would be just one more corpse among so many . . . .

Jim West had already lost three of his childhood friends to this bloodiest of conflicts. He didn't have many more friends left to lose.

 _Not Arte, please . . . . Not him too . . . ._

After what seemed like an eternity, the wagon trundled into a city of tents, outposts and makeshift shacks, and pulled up to one particular tent larger and sturdier-looking than the others, set slightly apart from the rest of the encampment. Nurses, a few doctors, soldiers and unidentified civilians bustled around this center of activity. They had arrived at the hospital unit at last. West and the wagon's driver shouted for assistance above the lesser din and got it. A pair of men accompanied by a hatchet-faced nurse rushed over with a stretcher. Jim helped lift his wounded friend onto the stretcher. He recognized the nurse and some of the doctors here too. He'd done all that he could; he knew he was putting Arte in good hands. It would have to be enough.

"Oh! Oh, Artemus!"

Jim's heart sank again as he heard the pained cry behind him, one that sounded like the voice of an elderly woman. _Someone_ else had recognized the injured officer he'd just brought in. It's not as if Captain Gordon's first name was a common one.

Jim turned around and saw a group of elderly women all wearing the somber black dresses standard among the Union's older camp volunteers, many of them widows or mourners. It was obvious which of this group had cried out. One woman, paler, grayer and more withered than the rest had stepped forward and was reaching out toward the stretcher, held back by her companions.

"Artemus!" she called again, heedless of the fact that Captain Gordon couldn't hear her. Her eyes glistened as the stretcher was borne away into the hospital tent. She seemed on the verge of collapse.

 _Must be family_ , Jim thought grimly. Relatives of soldiers often volunteered as a chance to visit their loved ones. But in such a circumstance as this! For his friend's sake, Jim felt the need to offer this woman what aid and reassurance he could.

"You know Captain Gordon, Ma'am?" he asked, trying to figure out who she could be. He knew that both of Artemus' parents were still living, but this lady looked so old; _too_ old to be his mother, Jim would have thought. Dear god, a grandparent maybe?

"Captain?" she asked tremulously, gaze still following the vanishing stretcher. One of the other ladies pressed a handkerchief into her hands, but she wrung it in them rather than raising it to her face. "Surely it is my nephew Artemus Gordon!"

"You didn't tell us he was an officer, dear," the woman who'd handed her the handkerchief said, sounding impressed. As if that could be any consolation at a time like this. "Oh dear," she said, realizing it herself.

The old woman paid her no attention but kept staring in the direction of the hospital tent, transfixed in a terrible way. Jim wished he knew what to do or say in this situation. He felt as helpless as the old lady right now, and wasn't prepared when that watery but razor-sharp gaze turned to him.

"Will he live, Captain?" she asked, knowing his rank at a glance.

 _I sure hope so!_

He hesitated for several seconds, trying to find the right words. He couldn't give her an answer he didn't have yet himself, and a lie right now might prove crueler than any truth.

"I don't know," he admitted. "I'm hoping he will." He nodded toward the hospital tent. "We've got the finest medical staff in the whole Union Army in there. If anyone can get the job done right, they can." _And you damn well better live, buddy, after what I just went through to bring you back!_ He was trying to think what else he could tell the old lady when the hatchet-faced nurse came back out of the tent and made a beeline for him.

"All right," the nurse said. "We've got Gordon in with the surgeons. Now it's your turn, Captain West."

"Me?" The young captain had forgotten about the slight grazing injury he'd taken. Most of the blood on his uniform had belonged to his friend. Most, but not all. "This is just a scratch!"

"And it's my job to make certain it remains that way!" the nurse snapped, taking him by one arm and threatening to yank him along into the tent if she had to. "Untreated small wounds become untreatable large wounds given time – not on my watch, thank you!"

Recalling that this particular nurse – Janet, he remembered was her name – wasn't a good one to cross, he gave in, but not without a backward glance at the distressed elderly aunt of his friend and a polite nod to her. He saw she was looking at him in a curious way, as if trying to remember him from somewhere, though he knew he had never met her before. But he didn't have time to wonder about it long before the medical tent and its nursing staff enveloped him to deal with his 'scratch.'

An hour, two pills, a dozen or so stitches and approximately three lectures later, Jim emerged from the tent into the open, if not more pleasant, air of the Petersburg military encampment. He didn't have to wonder where Artemus Gordon's aunt had gotten to, because she was still there, waiting outside the tent in anxious anticipation of any crumb of news she could find out about her loved one.

 _Poor old woman._ You'd think someone would have at least brought her a chair in all this time. Then he looked and saw someone _had_ brought her a camp chair. She just wasn't using it. She'd either gotten up the moment she recognized him coming out of the tent or she'd been standing, maybe pacing, all this time and wasn't as frail as she looked – not physically, anyway. Knowing she'd be expecting some word from him, he decided to save her the trouble and walked over to her.

"I haven't heard anything yet," he said. But he had made darn sure that if there was any information it would be brought to him straightaway – and first. "Ma'am, if you'd like, there's a tent for visitors not far from here that'd be a lot more comfortable." _And less in the way of medical staff_ , he thought. "I promise you, as soon as they let me know, I'll let you know. Would that be all right?"

The old woman glanced around at their surroundings as if reading his thoughts and sighed.

"I suppose I'd better," she said. "It's very kind of you to be so considerate of an old biddy like me. You're his friend, aren't you? I heard that nurse call you Captain West."

"James West, Ma'am. Your nephew calls me Jim. You can call me that too if you like."

"Thank you, Jim." She smiled a bit sadly as she allowed him to show her the way to the visitor's tent. "He's written about you to us in letters. He didn't tell us you were a captain." She shook her head. "He didn't tell us _he_ was a captain either."

"He probably didn't want to worry you," Jim said. It had become common knowledge, even among the public, that captaincy wasn't the safest rank to hold. When Jim first had earned that exalted status at age twenty, he'd been so full of pride he practically wanted to paint it as an announcement on store walls. He'd also been relieved to regain the rank after a brief demotion. But he had aged in more than mere time since then and understood. Artemus wouldn't have been the only officer not to tell his family everything. Given that Arte worked for military intelligence, he probably wasn't telling them much of _anything_. This old lady's hair appeared to be naturally curly, but if it hadn't been, the stories Arte could've told her would be enough to curl it all right. Jim had cause to know.

Funny, he thought. Or not so funny, but strange. He and Artemus Gordon had spent this war serving in entirely separate units, yet their various adventures had caused them to cross paths time and again. They'd saved one another so many times it could practically be accounted a hobby. It was an odd basis for a friendship, but Jim had come to regard Arte as more of a brother than his real flesh-and-blood brother. A kindred spirit, that's what he was.

"Goodness!" the elderly woman at his side broke through Jim's silent reverie as they reached the visitor tent. "I didn't even properly introduce myself!" If she was embarrassed, it wasn't showing though. "I am Maude Gordon. I'm Artemus' great aunt, really. His father's father's sister."

A spinster great aunt from the sound of it. Well, that explained her age. Years weren't all that set her apart from the other volunteer women in appearance. Her clothing was almost identical to theirs, if a little more careworn, but now he noticed the large obsidian necklace that she wore around her neck, with a not-quite-matching silver locket attached. One of the larger stones had a chip in one corner, and the locket had a trace of tarnish, aged like their owner but dramatic. Maybe that was a family trait? Arte was _always_ dramatic.

Inside the tent, some of the rest of Great Aunt Maude's flock was already gathered, seated at a table exchanging gossip and drinking tea. They hailed her over as soon as she and her escort came in. To Jim's embarrassment, instead of her sitting down to join in, she insisted on them clearing a place for _him_ while she went and fetched Jim some tea and cookies!

"Captain West has been wounded as well," she told them.

Immediately, before Jim could make his escape, he was surrounded by black-dressed biddies clucking over him with concern and trying to wait upon the 'poor, brave young man' while other Union soldiers – some of them his own – looked on with amusement. Even if unrelated, soldiers in the camp often spent time with such volunteers to be reminded of the mothers, aunts and grandmothers they'd left back home.

"It's just a scratch!" Jim insisted, blushing hot enough to make some of the flock fret aloud that he might be flushed with fever.

"A scratch, Cap'n?" Corporal Tobin mock-grimaced. "Last time you fetched a scratch we had to carry you in like poor Cap'n Gordon! I reckon this can't be above a paper cut."

 _Thank you so much, Charlie!_

The corporal ought to know, though, since he'd been part of the rescue party retrieving Captain Gordon from the Confederates, hopefully in time.

 _Don't you let us down now, Arte!_

Artemus Gordon hadn't let Jim or his small company down when they'd been the ones facing capture and imprisonment and possible death. That made his survival all the more important to all of them now as victory seemed nearly at hand. As the horror stories filtering out about Susquehanna and Andersonville did too.

With effort, Jim managed to extricate himself from the attention of Great Aunt Maude's friends before he could be all but drowned in tea and sympathy. He was exhausted, achy and feeling every fraction of his 'scratch' as Charlie Tobin, all mockery gone, assisted him back to his tent.

"Captain West?" another voice hailed him as they were nearly back at the tent. The two men turned around and saw a medic from the hospital section jogging toward them. Jim saw right away that the man was grinning a bit rather than wearing a mournful expression, thank heavens.

"Good news?"

The medic nodded.

"Nurse Janet said I was to find you and tell you straightaway. Captain Gordon came through his operation and the doc says the bullet didn't do no real damage inside." The man paused to catch his breath for a few seconds. "Says if he doesn't get an infection, he'll pull through okay."

"Thanks," Jim murmured, though the medic waited barely long enough to hear it. Message delivered, messenger was already trotting back to where more medical duties awaited. Jim and Charlie exchanged cautious glances. This _was_ good news, but that was also a mighty big 'if' and both men knew it.

"Charlie . . . ."

"Say no more, Cap'n," Tobin held up a hand. "I'll go tell the Cap'n's auntie. You stay here and rest up that scratch of yours so we don't have both of you in the infirmary at once. The docs and nurses'd never be able to handle that much trouble!"

"Thanks, Charlie," Jim grinned with weary relief. Knowing he could trust Corporal Tobin with the assignment – as well as Tobin cadging himself some extra tea and cookies in the process – the bone-weary Captain West stumbled his way into the tent and collapsed onto his bed.

[WWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW]

Jim didn't know how many hours he'd slept. He hadn't paid attention to what time it was when he'd finally been able to drift off to sleep, but it was full daylight now and no bugler or other troublemaker had come to awaken him. Some more thoughtful party had left a tray with bread, cheese and only slightly burnt bacon on a bedside table for him. He didn't know whether he owed such a leisurely waking to lax discipline or his own ferocious reputation. He didn't care. He wolfed down the food, tried to make himself semi-presentable without bothering to shave and left his tent in search of some coffee. He found the coffee – and a grimmer looking Corporal Tobin outside the nearest mess tent. It looked a mess too.

"Morning, Charlie," he said, reaching for a mug of the coffee, which he knew would be almost as dreadful as if he'd made it. "Trouble?"

The corporal nodded and frowned.

"Bit of bad action a couple of miles away last night. Their loss, not ours, but a couple dozen more wounded just brought in. And . . . Cap'n's taken a turn for the worse."

Jim's heart sank. He didn't need to be told which captain.

"Fever?"

Charlie answered with another silent nod.

"Damn. Oh, damn . . . ."

That was it then. Once a fever set in, there was one way it almost always went.

"You did everything you could, Cap'n," the corporal told him. "We all did."

Jim knew that, but it didn't make him feel any better right now.

"Has his aunt been told?"

Corporal Tobin nodded.

"She's with him now."

"Damn." That poor, poor old woman! They'd come so close to saving Artemus and now . . . . Jim downed the alleged coffee in two gulps, but even that couldn't warm up the cold pit in his stomach at a time like this. He dropped the tin mug into a bin with others of its kind and took off at a brisk jog for the infirmary, doing his best to keep one hand clamped over his stitches as he ignored the slight pulling pain his hasty pace caused.

The infirmary tent was vast – vaster even than the main hospital tent, but then, it had to be. The war created casualties too numerous to count, usually in places where regular buildings to house them all were insufficient or nonexistent. Charlie Tobin hadn't been exaggerating about the dozens of new wounded men either. The infirmary was a hive of activity with overworked nurses bustling about tending to patients with the aid of volunteers and whatever low-ranking soldiers could be spared to assist. In the semi-organized chaos, it would have been hard to find Artemus Gordon's bedside if Jim hadn't already had a pretty good idea where to look. The war had been long enough and terrible enough that even a chaotic military had learned how to organize so many casualties. There was an isolated quarantine tent for the coughing, hacking and pox-stricken patients who posed a serious danger to others, segregated from the rest of the wounded. Few visitors or volunteers went there. The main of the infirmary was sorted by heaviness of the wound. The lightly wounded, expected to return to duty soon, got the most casual company and needed the least nursing in spite of the occasional flare for melodrama. The more tender-hearted and squeamish volunteers spent most of their time among those. The more heavily wounded but responsive, many of them amputees, were ranked together. The remainder of the volunteers and most of the nurses and spiritual counselors were there.

Arte was not among those patients.

Jim steeled his stomach for where he was headed – the section containing the most seriously wounded – the soldiers least expected to live and often the most maimed and disfigured. Very few visitors came here. Fewer still stayed for more than minutes – or seconds. Here were the greatest of horrors of combat. The men with jaws or whole faces shot off. The burn victims. The infected, gangrenous and putrid. The gurgles, the sights, the smells.

Jim had been in such ward sections only twice before – once for a dying childhood friend, once for one of his men. He could hardly bear to think of Artemus dying in such a place too, among such company, but bear Jim would now. If only yesterday's optimistic report had held, if not for that fever . . . .

James West was the bravest of men, but grateful he didn't have to look around too much at the surroundings as he made his way to the bed marked out by one lone old woman in a black dress. Artemus Gordon was in that bed all right, pale as the sheets and moaning softly. One of his arms was in a cast as was one of his legs – Jim had known there was more wrong with him than just the bullet wound. In spite of the groaning noise he was making, he did not appear conscious as his great aunt lovingly mopped a cool, damp cloth across his fevered brow.

"Hello, Captain West," Maude Gordon said softly, almost making Jim start. He'd thought she hadn't seen or heard him coming, so intent on the patient, but obviously she had.

"G-" No, it wasn't a good morning, was it? Jim decided to greet her in the same way. "Hello. Miss Gordon, how is he?"

"As you see," she sighed, dipping and wringing the cloth in a bowl of cold water. She spared Jim a glance only briefly before turning her gaze back to her beloved patient. "I came because his poor mother had a vision of some ill befalling him, which it has. George would not allow her to leave, so I promised her I would check on Artemus myself. George wasn't happy about that either, but he cannot order me as he does Sarah."

Something in her tone gave Jim the impression that no one could order Maude Gordon where she did not want to be ordered. There was something of a cross between a General and a school marm about the old woman.

"It's as well the bullet didn't do more harm," she sighed again. "The nurses and I will have enough trouble pulling him through this fever and the rest as it is."

Pull him through? Did she really think she could do that? Maybe she did. Poor old woman hadn't been in the camp long. Obviously she didn't know just how grim the prognosis was when such wounds became infected and fever set in. Someone would have to tell her. Jim swallowed hard.

"Ma'am . . . ."

Abruptly, Miss Gordon whipped one hand up to silence Jim with a gesture. In the other, she continued to hold the cloth to her nephew's forehead, but with a flexibility that belied her age, she turned around to fix Jim with a stare that came straight out of her school-marmish side.

"If you are about to tell me that I do not understand the severity of Artemus' wounds, or worse, that there is no hope for him, _Captain_ , then I would ask you to hold your tongue! I have already heard this information from others, and I will have no more of it!" she snapped. On the bed, the patient moaned again, and she turned her attention fully back to the task at hand. "Artemus _will_ live, Captain West," she insisted. "He is a Gordon through and through. Moreover, _I_ have ordered him to survive, and mischief-maker he may be, but he knows better than to disobey his dear old auntie. Don't you, my dear?" She smiled down at the wounded man affectionately.

Artemus couldn't have heard his great aunt's words, yet something in his unconscious moaning sounded almost like a mumble of assent. Great Aunt Maude clearly took it as such.

"Of course you do, young scamp. And we will get you all better again, won't we?"

Again, Arte seemed to mumble an agreement.

"There, Captain, do you see?" the old woman nodded. "Artemus is not giving up on Artemus. I am not giving up on him either. And I firmly expect you to remain in his camp as well."

Jim knew the sound of an order when he heard one and stood up a little straighter before answering.

"Yes, Ma'am."

"Good. That's settled then." She seemed satisfied with that answer, then shook her head. "And here I am forgetting my manners again! For shame! I did not inquire how _you_ were feeling today, Captain West."

"Uh . . . better," Jim stammered. Oddly, he _was_ feeling better for this brief conversation in this horrendous ward. He shouldn't. He knew the odds were still stacked against his friend. But if anyone had enough force of will to move mountains, or to help Arte recover from such deadly injuries, it seemed as if this not-so-frail, elderly woman might just be the one to do it. "Better."

"Good! I am very glad to hear it, Captain."

"Jim," he reminded her, feeling slightly like a guilty schoolboy for doing so.

"Jim," she repeated. She turned toward him again with a softer expression this time. "I do hope you will forgive my rudeness, Jim. It's just that when I hear people dismissing my nephew's chances or those of our other fine boys at the very time we most need to be giving them encouragement and hope, it makes me boil! And you don't want to simmer a Gordon, young man – especially _this_ Gordon." She pointed to herself. "I've a good streak of my mother's Maitland stock in me as well, so if my nephew's fever thinks it can out-stubborn me, I'll learn it better!"

Jim wanted to believe she could. Maybe he _should_ be hoping instead of mentally sizing up a shroud while his friend was still among the living. He'd never been one to give up in the heat of battle. This was a different sort of battle, with despair as well as infection for an enemy. It was mostly going to be Arte's fight, but he shouldn't have to fight it alone.

"Is there anything I can do to help?" he asked.

She nodded.

"Talk to him, Jim. Positive talk. Cheerful talk, for him and these other lads as well." She waved her free arm about the ward where the other seriously wounded patients, some of them terrible to look at, appeared to be listening. "Tell others to do the same. These men are injured, not dead or deaf. We must give them hope!"

One of the other patients, a burn victim, moved slightly and garbled a "hear, hear!" in response. Jim gave that patient an acknowledging nod and grinned.

"Miss Gordon, you've missed your calling," Jim said. "You should have been a preacher, or a General."

"As I find both of those professions horrid, I'll settle for being a retired schoolteacher, thank you," she answered, fingering her obsidian necklace.

 _So that's how she has eyes in the back of her head_ , Jim thought. It seemed to be a trait several of his own schoolteachers had possessed as well.

"Not a bad calling either," he admitted.

She smiled and turned back toward her nephew, mopping his hot forehead again.

"My best student," she told Jim. "Also the greatest rascal. Smarter than a whip and all full of ginger. A good heart though, and brave. He reminds me very much of my youngest brother."

"Would that be his grandfather?"

She shook her head and gently ruffled Artemus' hair.

"No. George's father was my oldest brother, also a George. My youngest brother was called Jack – Jacob, really – after my mother's father. Artemus is the very image of him, his Uncle Jack. Jack was a mischief-maker with a good heart too. I miss him greatly." She smiled down at her nephew. "All the more reason to make sure you live, my dear Artemus. So you can go on making mischief and making people smile, just like your Uncle Jack."

Whether Artemus agreed or not, he appeared to settle into an easier sleep. Jim didn't know exactly how long Aunt Maude had been by his bedside, but he could see the fatigue in the old woman's face and knew that she needed a break. He offered to take her place while she got some fresh air and refreshment – and some rest, he hoped. He was grateful when her practical side once again took him up on his suggestion. Then he settled into the chair she'd been occupying and took over the duty of cooling down his friend's forehead. Jim also did just as Aunt Maude suggested, speaking optimistically as if Arte could hear every word, and found himself thinking more optimistically in the process. After all the dreadful things he'd seen in this war, he'd almost become afraid to let himself have hope. But they should have it now, shouldn't they? The Union was winning at long last. The end of the war, of the Confederacy and slavery was in sight.

The country reunited and no more slavery. Think of that.

Jim reminisced out loud about past adventures only a little. Mostly he talked about the bright future he saw coming – a future worth living for. And just in case Arte needed any further inducements to survive, Jim raised some topics Aunt Maude definitely wouldn't have approved of, he thought. Like the farmer Jim and Charlie Tobin had met who had these really beautiful daughters . . . and a few more delightful dating prospects, as well as dining and drinking ones too.

Was it just Jim's imagination or did he have the unconscious man's attention somehow? Feeling he was on the right track, he began telling Arte about these saloon girls up in St. Paul who could . . . .

"That sounds anatomically improbable, Captain West, as well as inadvisable for the patient," a doctor commented from behind, startling Jim. "However, do give me the address of that saloon when the war's over."

Jim made way so the doctor could examine his patient, but hung back wanting to know the results. The physician didn't seem to mind the audience but went straight to work, carefully undoing the dressing over the bullet wound and examining the handiwork of the previous day before covering it over again with a fresh dressing.

"Doesn't appear infected," the physician frowned. "Too soon to tell, of course."

"Why does he have a fever then?" Jim asked.

The doctor shook his head.

"Also too soon to tell. Could be any number of things. This man has multiple injuries, and the human frame can bear just so much." He turned to face Jim. "I understand that you fought quite a battle getting this man back after he fell in the field, Captain."

Jim nodded.

"Care to tell me about it?"

"No," Jim answered. He didn't want to think about that right now. He wanted to go back to giving Arte descriptions of the pretty saloon girls up in St. Paul. Anything was better to talk about than combat. Why did other people always want to pry about the gruesome details he couldn't escape even in his sleep?

Fortunately, this doctor didn't try too hard. He stepped aside to let the young captain resume taking the seat by the patient's bedside and asked no more questions. Jim didn't ask the doctor that most crucial question about whether his friend would live or not. Like Aunt Maude, he'd decided he wasn't going to accept any answer but yes.


	2. Portraits in Miniature

The next day saw little change in Captain Artemus Gordon's condition. He was no better and no worse. All in all that was a positive sign, Jim and the doctor thought. Patients who were septic went downhill fast, and at least Arte hadn't done that yet. But a fever was still there and he hadn't regained consciousness either. None of that made a dent in Great Aunt Maude Gordon's iron determination to nurse her grand-nephew back to health. Jim was only on light duty because of his 'scratch,' which was healing nicely in spite of his best efforts to ignore it. When he went to the infirmary to look in on Arte, Aunt Maude was already there, dabbing at the injured man's forehead and carefully spooning broth and water down his throat as he swallowed reflexively. For all that Maude was old enough to be Jim's grandmother – his _late_ grandmother – she acted like the most tireless volunteer they'd ever had. She must have been cajoling others outside the infirmary tent too. Jim noticed that there were a few more – and more positive – visitors in the 'severely wounded' section than usual.

Jim knew she wasn't really tireless though, so once again he offered to take up her post while she took an afternoon break. She was leaving to exit out the front of the tent/ward when the commotion occurred.

"No! No! **No!** " a man's voice was shouting – almost screaming. "You can't send me back! **No!** "

 _Uh oh_ , Jim thought. _Another nutter_.

It wasn't crazy to want to stay away from the battlefront, but in a few soldiers out of the teeming throng, reluctance went straight past cowardice and into downright hysteria. That was never good. Such men could become a danger to themselves or others. In desperation to avoid the enemy, they'd create worse mayhem for their own side. That's what this sounded like – with too many vulnerable patients in harm's way.

" **No! Nooooo!** " the noisemaker screamed. " **I won't go back!** "

Jim stood up. From where he was, he could see a patient from the 'lightly wounded' section doing the screaming – someone _very_ not happy to be discharged.

Jim started to move forward to confront the screamer, but to his horror the hysterical man was moving even faster and making his way straight toward the back of the tent on a direct line for Aunt Maude. The crazy knocked Arte's elderly aunt aside as if she were no more than a bundle of dry kindling, then grabbed up a sword that had been propped next to its owner's bedside and pointed it straight at Jim. _Hell_. Jim had his sidearm and could draw faster than even this man could stab him, but dared he do it in such close quarters? He wouldn't miss, but the bullet wouldn't stop with just one body in its way either. The slug would pass right through this man and possibly hit someone else – not a chance worth taking. Jim could probably knock the sword out of the deranged man's grip and kayo him in the process, but that too risked hitting and hurting one of the patients. He swayed like a snake ready to strike, or to dodge the blade if he had to, but every option seemed like a bad one, for the other patients if not for him.

As Jim and the crazed man squared off in their uneasy standoff and the crazy looked ready to make another, more aggressive move with the sword, Jim suddenly saw a flash of white and black. A ceramic chamber-pot rose up behind the crazy's head and two stick thin, black-garbed arms brought it crashing down on the would-be swordsman's skull with enough force to knock him to the ground and split the pot in two. The sword clattered out of the hysterical man's hands and as he lay on the floor of the tent, a thoroughly disgusted and angry Maude Gordon threw the broken pieces of chamber-pot down on top of him and then grabbed up a nearby crutch for her own weapon, with which she began beating the wretch.

Whack!

"Shame on you!" she cried.

Whack!

"For shame!"

Whack!

"Attacking a defenseless . . ."

Whack!

". . . helpless, little . . ."

Whack!

". . . old lady!"

Whack!

Jim stepped in and put a restraining hand on the crutch before Aunt Maude could break it over the stunned man's body, almost feeling sorry for the beaten-up crazy. She surrendered the bludgeoning weapon to him with no more than a disgusted snort aimed at the man at her feet, who was now groaning and semi-conscious at best. If this deranged patient hadn't wanted to be released from medical care, he was going to get his wish, thanks to her, and maybe a stay in the lockup or a mental hospital afterwards. Defenseless, helpless little old lady indeed! Oh, she was related to Artemus all right!

"Are you okay, Ma'am?" Jim asked.

Aunt Maude blinked, as if considering. She patted herself down, wiped some dust and grime from her black dress, adjusted the long obsidian necklace and took an unspoken inventory before nodding.

"No thanks to that ruffian!" she harrumphed as said ruffian was half-carried, half-dragged out of the infirmary tent by a pair of unsmiling sentries. Well, mostly unsmiling. Camp gossip seemed to spread news faster than any telegraph. By suppertime, Jim bet, the story of just how defenseless and helpless _this_ particular little old lady was might reach past the Generals' tents and halfway to Washington and someone would be suggesting they recruit a biddy brigade! Oh, that would be a story worth telling Artemus all right . . . . But first, Jim made sure Maude Gordon had the escort of a couple of her flock as well as a sturdy soldier to walk her back to the Volunteers reception tent. He hoped a cup of tea and some cookies might suffice to recover her from today's misadventure.

As he took up position next to Artemus Gordon's bedside, Jim felt himself grinning and shaking his head in spite of the grim surroundings. A hostile, trained and armed combatant taken down by an old woman using a chamber-pot and crutch for found weapons! Maybe a biddy brigade wouldn't have been such a bad idea. Maybe the South was lucky the North didn't have more great aunts and retired school marms! Chuckling to himself, Jim shook his head again as he took up a cool, damp rag.

"Arte, buddy, have I got a story for you . . . ."

[WWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW]

The next day when Jim saw Maude Gordon again, it wasn't in the infirmary tent but a distance outside the hospital tent where she was conferring in earnest with another of the black-clad volunteer ladies. She didn't appear to be haranguing the woman, but rather consoling her. The other woman looked worried. It was none of Jim's business as he bloody well knew, but he let curiosity get the better of him. In addition to having the keenest eyesight of any soldier in the camp, he also had the keenest hearing. His sharp senses, as well as his other talents, were among the reasons he'd been chosen from time to time to undertake dangerous intelligence missions for the army. If he concentrated he could hear every word.

"But whatever will you _do_ , dear?" The worried volunteer wrung her hands. "We must be getting back and the hotel is only paid through tomorrow!"

"And so you shall go, my dear," Maude soothed, patting those wringing hands. "You and the others must by all means keep to your schedule. I shall be perfectly all right down here by myself. I cannot leave my nephew as I find him now, and the darling boy's parents will support me in this. I will telegraph George shortly. Now don't you worry about a thing! Gladys is perfectly capable of shepherding you back without my help."

 _Reassuring the troops_ , Jim thought to himself. The older female volunteers were a bit of a biddy brigade already.

"But by yourself!" the woman protested.

"I shall find a way!" Maude declared. "I'm a Gordon, and you know what that means."

"That you are as stubborn as a mule," her companion grumbled sullenly.

"That also," Maude agreed. "Now run along, you, and help the others to pack. New York has spared you long enough, but as for me, I shall stay – and that is my final word. I shall safeguard my virtue among all these handsome young men somehow, I assure you."

"Oh, Maude," the other woman sniffled, but gave no further argument and went scurrying off as ordered.

Jim seriously doubted the elderly auntie would have to worry about safeguarding her virtue under any circumstances. But he, Charlie Tobin, and Artemus' own troops had already quietly put out the word around camp that if _anyone_ gave this old woman so much as a twig's worth of trouble, they'd be answering for it, hard. Jim for one was grateful that she'd be staying behind to help his friend. Arte still hadn't awakened, but he hadn't gone septic either, and the doctor thought he might be showing signs of improvement. It hadn't occurred to Jim to wonder how long this particular group of volunteers might have been at Petersburg already before he'd shown up from the field with the wounded Captain Gordon.

Pep talk given, Maude Gordon was marching off herself as resolute and square-shouldered as ever. Jim still had some duties of his own to attend to, so he figured he'd just find her in the infirmary tent as usual, tending to Arte and trying to prod some cheer into the other badly wounded patients as usual.

[WWWWWWWWWWW]

'Light' duty wasn't always light, even for men with scratches, though most of the heavy lifting required of Captain James West on this day was mental rather than physical. He was flattered that senior-ranking officers actually wanted to consult with him on tactics and strategy. It was a welcome change from the early days of the war, when most of the 'superior' officers had judged a twenty year-old captain (correctly) as arrogant and inexperienced. Now he no longer envied the Generals their rank or their responsibility for sending masses of men to their deaths. He might have started his adulthood as a show-off. He could happily leave the showing off to others now. The greater good, the larger goals of this fight – that was what really mattered. He'd had enough deaths on his hands as the good soldier he was.

Trudging over to the infirmary tent with a body still energetic but a mind preoccupied with weightier matters, he was looking forward to receiving a bit of pep talk himself. He expected Maude Gordon still to be there and felt guilty that he hadn't been able to relieve her of her post sooner as he often did. The sounds he heard as he made his way toward the back of the tent put some extra spring in his step though – Arte's voice! He was sure he heard it! Arte must be awake at last! Trying to pick up the pace without knocking anything over or colliding with/disturbing the nurses or patients, he had almost reached his friend's bedside when what he heard stopped him in his tracks.

"But why, Aunt Maude?" Arte was mumbling, eyes not really open. "Why does he hate me?"

Maude Gordon was there, once again mopping her nephew's fevered brow. It was clear Arte wasn't all the way conscious yet, but in a semi-conscious delirium, and not a happy one.

"He doesn't hate you, Artemus," Aunt Maude told him. "Your father loves you. He just isn't good at showing it. That's how he is."

As Artemus' face wrinkled in argument, Jim felt his own cheeks flush. This was a private conversation he _definitely_ had no business hearing, and neither participant was aware of his presence. Out of respect for his friend's privacy, Jim tried to back away and in doing so accidentally knocked up against a cane that someone had left propped near an empty bed, and sent the stick falling. _That_ made Maude Gordon realize he was standing there. Her stricken expression as he picked up the cane told Jim everything he needed to know. Neither Gordon would have wanted him to hear what he had just heard. Well, to spare their feelings Jim had better see if all those acting lessons Arte had given him during their encounters were sinking in.

"Uh, sorry," Jim said. "I'm not usually such a klutz! But I thought I heard Arte calling me only it made no sense – Be Jim or something?" Trying to look as blank and confused as possible, he scratched at one of his ears and apologized again. "Hearing's not so good these days. All those artillery shells . . . ."

At once he saw her look of relief, and she smiled up at him and gave Artemus a gentle pat on the shoulder.

"Artemus, your friend Jim is here to visit you," she said rather louder than usual. "You should have a nice chat with him. Won't that be nice?" Her tone and face contained only the slightest trace of strain as she turned back toward Jim. "He's delirious, I'm afraid. You mustn't pay too much mind of anything he says at all at the moment. The doctors say it is an improving sign, though, so we must feel encouraged!"

Jim nodded. He was about to change places with her at Arte's bedside as had become their routine when he suddenly heard from the far side of the infirmary tent someone hailing him by name. Without even thinking, he whipped his head around to acknowledge the distant speaker. It was only someone wishing to give him a friendly wave, not summon him for any reason. But when he turned his head back around and saw the penetrating gaze Aunt Maude was now giving him, he felt his cheeks grow hot again. Caught in his own lie, by a schoolteacher no less. He had only meant to spare both Gordons' feelings, but still . . . . Jim cast his eyes down toward the ground like a guilty schoolboy, not wanting to meet that gaze again or see the hurt he inadvertently caused. He half expected a lecture.

"Jim . . . ."

Aunt Maude's voice was soft, but did not sound hurt at all, or reproving. When Jim looked up again, he saw only a sad smile and something like gratitude. There was a kind of silent understanding in that expression.

"I think you really are a very good friend to Artemus," she said. "And a good man as well. Thank you, Jim."

Jim nodded. He didn't know what more there was to say at a time like this, and he doubted he could say much around the lump that had developed in his throat. She stayed a little longer, making sure her nephew was resting easier before she trusted him entirely to Jim's care. As she departed, something about her nagged at Jim – some difference in her, or in her appearance that he couldn't quite put his finger on . . . .

[WWWWWWWWWWWWWWW]

"Ready to go, Cap'n?"

"Sure am!" Jim grinned, making certain his officer's uniform was neat and in order, brass buttons polished and shining. He, Charlie and several others had been given leave to go out tonight for the sort of military review he liked best. The prettiest girls in Petersburg would be reviewing them all right and Jim, the proudest and most self-assured of peacocks, had the best display. Oh, the ladies were going to like him! They paid a lot of attention to appearance. Jim had been taught early on that jackets best buttoned were often the first unbuttoned, and he felt like he had a month's worth of unbuttoning to do tonight. And why shouldn't he whoop it up? He'd been helping to look after his best remaining friend all week – and to a lesser extent the friend's great aunt too. The doctors had assured Jim that Arte's fever was finally abating, his wounds were healing and he was expected to awaken any time now. So Jim had better have a few more risqué stories to tell him when that happened, hadn't he?

Best of all, Jim and the others had just been given a week's pay. Technically it was for a week that had happened last month, but what did that matter? If there was one thing a pretty girl liked even better than a comely captain in uniform, it was a comely captain in uniform who could spring for drinks, dinner and, ideally, breakfast. And if there was one thing Captain James West liked most, it was pretty girls.

The group of Union soldiers was already starting in on the whooping part as they sauntered and swaggered their way in to Petersburg proper. Years of listening to rebel yells had made the men determined to prove that Union troops could be even noisier. Where plain townsfolk were concerned, it had a practical side as well. Those who did not welcome the soldiers were being given fair warning to close the shutters, lock doors and stay out of their way. But those who welcomed the blue-dressed troops would come out to greet them. Either way, everybody knew the boys were back in town. They were joking and jostling as the first of the stores came into view.

A couple of men broke off from the rest to run ahead toward the tobacconist's shop and the liquor store to get the first crack at the goods available. Jim stayed with the main pack, not because he wasn't eager, but because it didn't suit his officer's status to look _too_ eager. As a captain, he'd be given access to the best of what was on offer whenever he arrived and he knew it. The cluster sauntered toward Petersburg's premier pawn shop window display, not to sell but to buy. You never knew what you might find within, but some of the men would buy pretty baubles to attract the ladies. Jim never resorted to such tactics – he preferred to _be_ the pretty bauble. But he was curious by nature and sometimes enjoyed looking at the odder objects in the collection. Tonight's display offered up a new cabinet of curiosities, small statues, metal tools of indiscernible use, a selection of ungentlemanly gentleman's top hats. Those weren't what caught Jim's attention though.

"Cap'n," Charlie whispered, noticing the same object Jim had his eyes on, "isn't that . . . ?"

Jim nodded.

He'd only ever seen one big, dramatic-looking obsidian necklace in his life and he was sure he was staring at it again now, perched on a mannequin's neck, with a little paper tag attached. There was no tarnished silver locket hanging from it, but with the chip in the largest stone, he'd have known that necklace anywhere. Seeing it here, he realized what had been teasing at his subconscious about Maude Gordon's appearance earlier. She hadn't been wearing her prized possession because she'd already pawned it. That's what she had done to stay on after her volunteers' group had left. Jim had always assumed that Arte, with his obvious education, refined tastes and tales of growing up in a huge house came from money. Jim had never asked though. Maude's careworn weeds were not an affectation after all, but a sign of something else.

The other men had eyed the necklace too now. At least one or two of them had recognized it also and had begun mumbling among themselves.

"Cap'n," Charlie asked, eyes still on the old, fancy necklace, "what do you think we should do?"

But Jim wasn't listening – because Jim had already gone inside the shop.

[WWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW]

Morning dawned, as it does even when it isn't quite wanted. By the time a bleary Captain James West stumbled his way toward the infirmary tent, it was several hours past dawn. He'd been feeling lighter in spirit than he had in days, maybe weeks. Now as he approached his destination, a lot of that lightness began to dissipate. It wasn't just the dreariness of the surroundings, but the daunting task ahead. How should he handle this? _Buck up_ , he told himself. It was best just to bite the bullet and get it over with.

"Ma'am," Jim said, tilting in a bow-like way toward Great Aunt Maude as he made his way to the familiar bedside and its attendant.

"Jim?" the old woman asked, peering up at him in concern. "Are you all right? I must say, young man, you do not look well at all."

"I'm all right," he told her. "Just a bit tired. The boys and I went in to town last night."

"And came back this morning," she sighed, getting up from her chair. "Well have a seat, young rascal! And don't hang your head about it just because I'm here! I'm sure my nephew would be doing the same thing if he could." She smiled back at Artemus, who appeared to be sleeping peacefully. "Perhaps someday soon again, I hope?"

Jim didn't reply, reaching into his crumpled blue jacket.

"Ma'am . . . ."

"His fever has broken at last," she continued on, leaning down, feeling her nephew's forehead with the front and then the back side of her hand, almost oblivious to the man she was speaking to.

"Ma'am . . . ."

The third Ma'am in a row got her attention. She faced Jim as he stood next to her rather than taking the chair. She looked ready to say something in exasperation when she saw he held a small papered package in one hand and had something more than the one word to say.

 _Bite the bullet_ , Jim told himself.

"The thing of it is, Miss Gordon," he cleared his throat, "the boys and I really appreciate what you're doing for Captain Gordon, so . . . so we sort of chipped in and . . . ." He held out the brown paper package to her.

"Oh?" She took it from him and Jim sucked his breath in, uncertain what her reaction would be as she undid the string and began to unfold the brown paper. Her eyes grew wide as her fingers felt what it must be first, before the shiny, dark bits of stone came into view. "Oh!" she exclaimed. "Ohhhh . . . ."

She collapsed back into the chair she had just vacated, and for a few terrifying seconds, Jim was afraid she had suffered a heart attack or apoplexy. But then he saw her clutch the necklace tight in one wrinkled hand and lift it up to kiss it. Her eyes were closed tight and there were tears – not of shame but gratitude – trickling down her cheeks as she put it on over her head again.

"I do love this, you know," she whispered, adjusting the beads so that it hung in its proper position once more.

Jim said nothing. Anyone who'd seen her at the camp would have known she loved that necklace. But it was just as obvious that she loved her family more.

Now it was her turn to reach inside her clothing. Jim saw her draw from inside her high neckline a strand of cheap, sturdy thread to which her tarnished silver locket had been attached. With trembling hands, she undid it from the thread and tried to reattach it to a small hook on the obsidian necklace. But the locket slipped through her unsteady fingers to land, with a tiny clatter, at Jim's feet. Able to bend down quickly and more easily than her, Jim scooped it up to hand back to her while she was still stifling an exclamation at her own clumsiness. As he did so, he felt the locket come open and was careful not to drop the tiny lock of brown hair that fell out of it.

"Oh! Oh! Oh!" she cried, relieved that he had caught that as he handed it back to her. He could see that in addition to the lock of hair, the locket itself contained two miniature portraits of the very old variety. He was curious to see them, but out of courtesy did not hesitate in turning them over. "Thank you, Jim!"

Maude Gordon cradled the precious objects in her hands as if they were holy relics. She rubbed the lock of hair gently, a memento of someone loved and now lost. He knew that old people, people of Maude's generation, often held on to such a souvenir. A sibling perhaps, or . . . .

"Your parents?" he asked. He couldn't help noticing that the tiny portraits were of a man and woman.

Maude shook her head. She hesitated for a moment, then held the locket open and up so he could see the pictures more clearly. The portrait on the left side of the locket was of a handsome and sturdy young man wearing a blue military officer's uniform of a type he didn't recognize. His hair matched in color the tiny saved lock, which must have come from him. The portrait on the right was of a dark-haired, dark-eyed young woman who was smiling more radiantly than was typical in such miniatures – a bold young lass. Jim resisted the urge to whistle, but whoever she was, she had been a real beauty.

"My fiancé and myself," she explained as she placed the lock of hair and closed up the silver locket once more. Now Jim had to resist gaping as well. It was impossible to equate the withered old woman before him with the ravishing creature in the portrait and yet . . . . Well, she must have been young once, hadn't she? "His name was Phineas," she said with a sad smile. "Phineas Cooper. A captain, like yourself and Artemus. He died in 1814 when the British attacked and burned our Capitol. It was a hopeless fight, but he and the others bought time enough for Mrs. Madison and the White House staff to escape. He was very brave." She made a low sniffling noise and wiped one last tear away. "My full name is Madeleine Elizabeth Gordon. Most of the boys called me Maddy in those days, or Meg, because of my initials. But Phineas always called me his Maude. Since I never got the chance to take his name at our wedding, I have kept the one name he had already given me. Always."

"And you never married . . . ." Jim's words came out before he could stop them. That was an almost unimaginable tragedy to him. A woman like the one in the portrait – a gorgeous hothouse flower - she'd have attracted a whole swarm of young men. Probably could have had her pick of any one of them.

"No," she said. "The rest of the family wasn't happy about that, of course. But I only loved Phineas. I will love him until I die." On her second attempt, she managed to secure the locket back onto the obsidian necklace with a snap. "Well, enough about me. And yourself, Jim? Is there a woman out there wearing you around her neck?"

"Me?" He almost jumped back at the question. No way he was settling down, ever. "No! I'm not really the marrying type."

"Indeed?" Maude gave him a quizzical look. "Well, was she pretty at least?"

"Huh? Was who pretty?"

"The blond woman whose hair is on your collar this morning." The old woman sounded amused.

Jim inspected his jacket and collar and pulled loose a long, blond strand that he hadn't noticed until that moment. Thanks to the rest of the men chipping in toward Jim's purchase of the obsidian necklace, he'd managed to afford his evening on the town after all, if with a less fancy supper and breakfast than the one he'd anticipated. At least the slight shortness of funds had saved him from a probable hangover.

"Um, yes," he admitted. "Very pretty." _Skillful, too_.

A groaning sound from the bed spared Jim any further embarrassment, as Arte appeared to be stirring fitfully in his sleep. His eyes didn't open, but he was definitely making a new, maybe hopeful sound. Aunt Maude turned her attention back to him in an instant, gently felt his forehead again, then leapt up without another word to go fetch one of the doctors or nurses. Jim, astonished once more at the little old lady's speed, sank down in the vacated chair and laid a hand on Arte's forehead himself. It didn't seem as though there was a fever still, but Jim wasn't the best judge of such things. He didn't have the magical ability to spot a fever at fifty paces that most mothers seemed to possess.

"Wha . . . ." Arte mumbled groggily. At long last, the wounded man's eyelids fluttered open and he gazed upwards. "Jim?" His voice was so weak it was barely a whisper, but he was conscious and able to recognize who he was seeing.

"Welcome back, buddy," Jim responded, grinning from ear to ear, all fatigue forgotten.

Arte's eyes stared about as the patient tried to assess his location and winced in pain as he tried to move. Several days of unconsciousness had left him stiff and weak, and he'd discover soon enough the extent of his injuries.

"Take it easy," Jim told him. "Your Aunt Maude's gone to get a doctor. Looks like you're going to pull through after all!"

"A-Aunt Maude?" Arte stammered, as his expression changed to puzzlement. "Thought I had a dream about her, but . . . ."

"Well, young man," the voice of the party in question harrumphed, "I am glad you consider it a dream and not a nightmare!"

Aunt Maude had arrived with a doctor _and_ a nurse in tow, and in spite of the stern tone she had used, she too was grinning from ear to ear now.

"Oh, Artemus," she exclaimed in a much lighter voice, "it is so good to see you awake!"

The patient was indeed back, but confused, Jim could see. Probably exhausted too, for all that he'd gotten over a week's worth of sleep in the past four days. Jim had so much he wanted to talk about with Artemus now that it would be possible, but it wasn't a real possibility yet. At present, the doctor and nurse were elbowing their way to the fore and even Aunt Maude had to cede the field to them. Jim's conversation – regarding military intelligence and the events that led to Arte's injuries in the first place – needed to be _very_ private. Even Aunt Maude – or _especially_ Aunt Maude – could not be told about that. But Arte was staring past his other three attendants to look up at Jim, an unasked question showing on his features. West, realizing the doctor, nurse and elderly relative were all facing away from him, risked a silent mouthing of the words 'We got him' that only Arte would see. The price had been high, but a vital mission was complete. Tacitus Mosely, the Butcher of Susquehanna, and his lieutenants might have gotten away, but a monster of Andersonville would not escape justice. Arte, understanding the message, sank back on his pillow and allowed his current, much friendlier inquisitors to poke and prod at him as they wished. Jim made his excuses to let them see to their patient while he retreated for his own quarters to catch up on the sleep he hadn't gotten last night.


	3. A Proposition and a Homecoming

" _Transferred_?"

Artemus Gordon read the letter again, but nothing changed the words on the sheet of paper. He stared at it in shock and dismay. After all he had done in the Union's cause – all the missions carried out, the danger. He had darn near lost his life, had given his blood . . . .

"C'mon, Arte," Jim cajoled him. "There are worse fates than a cushy desk job in Washington! This isn't a demotion. It's a temporary reassignment with a couple weeks of furlough thrown in so you can heal up. I can think of lots of guys who'd be glad to be in your shoes! Well, shoe and slipper, anyway."

Jim could have left off that last bit, Arte grumbled to himself. He didn't need any reminders that there was still a cast on his left leg. The cast on his left arm had come off at least, and the pains in his side and back had begun to fade. He knew he'd be useless in the field for a while to come, and yet . . . .

"They're taking me away from my men!"

"Might've done that soon anyway," Jim pointed out. "War's nearing the finish line. Another couple of weeks and I think we'll have 'em."

Arte nodded. It was what he'd been thinking himself. He should have been immensely cheered by the idea and he was, but somehow that's what made this new transfer of duty rankle all the more. He'd been in this fight from the beginning and he'd intended to see it through to the end. He wouldn't see very much from behind a desk in bureaucracy-land. Wouldn't be in amongst the fighting lads or enjoying the camaraderie of the camps either. It felt like a cashiering somehow, even if it wasn't one.

And what if Jim was right and the war ended soon? What then? He hadn't made any future plans. He'd been just as surprised as anybody else that he'd survived his recent injuries. The war and his secret intelligence work for General Grant had demanded every ounce of skill and concentration he'd had on a daily basis. What was there for him to do when that work was over? Could he really just pick up the pieces of his earlier life as if nothing had happened? Well, no. There was at least one part of that life he'd be glad not to have to go back to. No need for conductors on the Underground Railroad anymore, thank heavens. Slavery was ended – good riddance! No – _excellent_ riddance! The end of that barbaric atrocity couldn't have come soon enough.

"You're awfully quiet," Jim said.

"Huh? Oh, uh, sorry." Arte hadn't meant to be rude, especially not to his closest friend. "Just . . . have a lot of thinking to do." A question occurred to him. "Have you thought about it, Jim? Thought about what you're going to do when the war's over?"

"Sure," Jim shrugged. "I've got a couple of irons in the fire. You?"

"Nothing," Arte blurted out before he could stop himself, ashamed that this was the truth. He knew what he _didn't_ want to do, regardless of his father's views on the subject. There was always acting, of course, but . . . .

"Anyway, let's not count our chickens before they're hatched." Jim got up from the chair he'd been sitting in and made ready to leave. "We're not done yet!"

Arte wanted to urge him to sit back down, not to leave just yet. With their different postings, they'd come to value every scarce moment they'd had just to hang out and be friends. Those moments might be over soon too. But Jim had his own set of duties calling him, and it was selfish to expect him to spend every free moment he had near an invalid's bedside. As Arte reluctantly watched the younger captain go, he thought he saw a slight smile on Jim's face. No worries there. A man with Jim West's talent, smarts and looks would go far, provided he learned to reign in his temper and recklessness. Arte thought Jim had already come a long way from being the arrogant and naïve officer he'd first encountered. Even back then, Arte'd had nothing but admiration for Jim's courage and ability. He hoped with all his heart his young friend made it through to the war's end and to the bright, bright future that awaited him.

 _And you_? Arte asked himself again. He really was on the mend – so much so that his Great Aunt Maude had returned home the week before. He felt more alone than ever now that his company of compadres was being taken away from him too, or – to be precise – he was being taken away from them. He looked back at the dread words of the letter and wondered what path they were leading him on. Since staring at it wasn't going to do any good, he set it aside on the small ledge near his bedside. Feeling the tiny round mirror someone had given him as he did so, he picked up that instead and took a good, hard look at his reflection. There was no disputing anything he saw in that either. He looked entirely like himself, if a bit more gaunt and unshaven. He had no disguises on – no costume or uniform, no stage makeup, no wig or eyeglasses, no false beard or mustache – it was only him in that mirrored surface. _Who are you now_?

He didn't have an answer.

[WWWWWWWWWWWWW]

 _Only Washington would do things this way_ , Captain Artemus Gordon grumbled to himself, trying to stand as erect as possible on his crutches with a nervous aide-de-camp beside him. It was utterly ridiculous. Because of his injuries, he was being sent home to New York on furlough at the Army's expense. But before that furlough could commence, he was ordered to report in at his new duty station in Washington – for a _briefing_ , of all things! – and then, only after that, he would be sent home, the better to return in several weeks, hopefully with an unbroken leg. What a crazy, mixed-up, cockamamie side trip to require of a man unfit for it – so unfit that he'd been assigned the aide as a courtesy to cope with his luggage and provide assistance until Artemus could be safely dump- er, deposited – on the grounds of the Gordon family manse. Bad enough he'd be facing a chilly reception from his father when he got there, but to be drag-limped to the Capitol along the way for no damn good reason-! At least it had netted him two extra train rides. The mode of transportation was a novelty for him and he enjoyed it. But he'd like to give whoever was behind this 'briefing' idea a piece of his mind!

Arte had felt a _little_ mollified after the War Office headquarters came into view. It was a hive of activity and most of the worker drones buzzing about weren't out to inconvenience him personally. Rather, they showed him every bit of sympathy and consideration upon his arrival as he and his assigned escort made their way as directed down a particular corridor toward a particular room. He even received several very proper salutes. Spending as much time operating undercover and out of captain's garb as he did, it was a gesture he'd never gotten used to. He had a difficult time returning the salutes, hobbled as he was, but he did his best.

As the assigned room came into view, annoyance was replaced with curiosity and a touch of foreboding. The appointed room had armed guards stationed outside it. Maybe this meeting would be something worth his while after all – high level, anyway. Just how high level became apparent as the door was opened to admit him, but his aide was kept out. A new and unfamiliar secretary ushered him toward yet another inner room, with yet another pair of armed guards outside that chamber who announced his arrival to the party waiting within.

Limping his way in, Artemus' curiosity skittered to make room for other emotions – a shock of recognition and thrill of almost-terror. He stood up as straight as he possibly could, ignoring the residual pain in his side, and whipped his hand up in a very proper salute – not necessarily a _smart_ salute as he let go of and dropped one crutch while doing so. The falling crutch didn't break anything, and he didn't fall either. But Arte did his best to remain standing straight at attention, salute locked into place, without wincing as the crag-faced man got up from behind the where desk he'd been seated.

"At ease, Captain," the Commander-in-Chief ordered, with more amusement and concern in his voice than actual command. Artemus felt his cheeks redden as the tall, thin sixteenth President of the United States leaned down to retrieve the fallen crutch and assisted Artemus into a comfortable chair before resuming his own place behind the desk. Facing the famed leader he had seen only at a distance or in newspaper prints and the rare photograph, Artemus found himself at an uncharacteristic loss for words. The President did not.

"I must beg your pardon, Captain Gordon," Abraham Lincoln sighed without the slightest trace of irony or insincerity. "I realize it must be very inconvenient for you to travel all this way in your present circumstances, but it was necessary. Times and places are not always of our choosing, you understand."

Arte nodded and tried to look a little less gape-mouthed. Give the organizer of the meeting a piece of his mind indeed!

"Now I full well know," Lincoln said, "that you are on your way to a very deserved rest break, so I will try to be brief. Not a lawyer's strongest suit." The President smiled such a warm, self-deprecating smile that Artemus felt himself relaxing a bit in spite of the company. The smile didn't last, however. "The fact of the matter is, Captain, we are on the cusp of ending a great and terrible struggle, while we are also on the cusp of entering what promises to be another."

Arte could not refrain from gasping. Dear God, _another_ war? Had the current one not been terrible enough? A new battle? Against whom and for what purpose? Just the thought made him dismayed and dizzy.

"Not a war in the same sense, heaven be thanked," Lincoln added. "But a mighty struggle nevertheless." Lincoln's expression turned grave and sharp. "We must not only win this war which has so torn and divided our country at such cost. But we must also win the peace."

"Uh, win the peace, Sir?" Was that the right way to address a Commander-in-Chief? "Mr. President, I mean!"

Lincoln nodded. Artemus looked at him more closely and saw a man much changed from the campaign images he could recall from years earlier. Not just the President's eyes, but his deeply-lined face, his whole body – the stooped set of Lincoln's shoulders and his aged hands – suggested a weight of immeasurable sorrow and concern, all trace of good-natured humor fled. Here was not a master politician or a lawyer from Illinois, but the Bible's own Job, tested to limits that could not be imagined by other men. It almost made Artemus shiver.

"This will not be a small task," Lincoln continued. "Even the mightiest of treaties is a victory more on parchment than on a man's heart or mind. There will be many on both sides of this great conflict of ours who will never accept its results, who will do everything in their power to stir trouble again. Men seeking revenge or false glory, seeking profit, power, grasping for every devil's temptation that is put before them, be they in the North, in the South, in all directions of the compass. We will need other good and trustworthy men to stand ready to combat these scoundrel souls." He had been staring down toward some papers on his desk as he said this, but now turned his gaze back up to his listener. "To that end, a new law enforcement bureau is to be formed within the Department of the Treasury, a bureau which must be charged with combatting not just monetary crimes, but all manner of menace. A _Secret_ Service, if you will, with men of the highest character, bravery and intelligence to act as its agents. Trustworthy men not afraid to operate under cover, with the necessary skills to do so."

Artemus, hearing, felt his throat start to go dry as that sharp gaze focused on him. So this wasn't going to be a briefing after all – it was a job interview. The President's next words confirmed it.

"Your name has been very highly recommended to me by General Grant, and by my young friend Captain West." At the mention of West's name, a small crinkle of amusement returned to Lincoln's features. "I value their opinions a great deal. I also understand that you have turned down an offer of promotion in order to remain performing the very dangerous sort of work at which you are so accomplished."

"Yes, Mr. President," Arte admitted, flushing slightly. It was true, but he was astonished that the President of the United States should know such a detail about him. He'd thought it a private matter between him and Grant.

"Of course, a position in the new bureau must wait until the bureau is brought into existence," Lincoln added. "But that will happen soon. So I must ask you, Captain Gordon, if the position as an agent of such a bureau would be of interest to you when you are able to take it up." One of Lincoln's great, spidery hands gestured toward Artemus' outstretched leg cast, and the injured captain did his best to tuck it in quickly and sit up a bit straighter, which appeared to amuse his host. "I _did_ say at ease, Captain," Lincoln chided with a gentle grin. "As easy as it will allow. I know you are a gentleman of discretion who can keep in confidence this matter which we discuss. And the post requires a man to live long enough to take it! I have been assured that there will be sufficient opportunity of future danger to keep a man entertained if he chooses. Well, Captain, are you willing to consider it?"

Willing? The President of the United States was holding out to him the offer of an exciting and necessary job and asking if he'd be _willing_? At-ease be damned, Captain Artemus Gordon sat up as ramrod straight as he could manage.

"I'd be proud to serve my country in whatever capacity it needs me for, Sir! Mr. President!"

As tongue-tied as the response came out, the President seemed pleased with it. He nodded and smiled acceptance. Was this all really happening? Had U.S. Army Captain Artemus Gordon just managed to net a job, or job-to-be, straight from the President of the United States in person? Artemus was glad his head was firmly attached to his shoulders because at that moment it didn't know whether to float or to spin.

The interview wrapped up very quickly after that – brief, as Lincoln had promised (and possibly needed) with just the exchange of a few pleasantries in a conversation Artemus could scarcely believe he was having. It was only after he'd been collected by his aide-de-camp and was on his way out of the building that his star-struck haze began to fade enough for rational thought to take its place. He realized he had failed to ask some very important questions – to whit: if he got the job, exactly what would his legal powers and title be, when could the new position begin and what would it pay? Had he just volunteered himself for something he might regret? But when it was your President and your country asking, did regrets matter? If only Grant or Jim given him some warning of what they had recommended him for. Though they couldn't have, of course – not with everything being so hush-hush. A _Secret_ Service.

That didn't stop Arte from remembering the last conversation he'd had with Jim right before they'd gone their separate ways yet again. Was this what Jim was referring to with his remark about having some irons in the fire? Did one of those irons really belong to Captain Artemus Gordon? If so, that put a very different complexion on the innocent little smile he'd seen on the younger man's face that day.

 _Artemus, my boy, you've been set up!_

Set up for what, he still couldn't be sure. But the more he thought about it, the more convinced he became that James West had put one over on him. Even if it had been with Arte's best interests in mind, Arte would remember this. From now on, he'd be careful not to let Jim succeed in pulling any more wool over _his_ eyes! No Sir! That would never happen again.

[WWWWWWWWWWWWWWW]

 _When did everything get so old?_

Two days and two train connections had brought Artemus Gordon back to someplace he wasn't at all certain he wanted to be. Here was the mostly empty mansion that had once housed a veritable legion of Gordons, now with only three occupants, soon to be four again. Artemus had felt all the stirrings of familiarity and home as the carriage bringing him from the train station clopped into the neighborhood he'd grown up in. But seeing the great house with its chipped and fading paint, an overgrowth of vegetation and shuttered-in-daylight windows, left him feeling deeply dismayed. What had happened to the magical castle of his youth?

For that matter, what had happened to its occupants? Artemus was prepared for his Great Aunt Maude's appearance, having seen her so recently, and she'd been old for as long as he could remember. But the parents who came out to greet him – they were . . . old people too? When the hell had that happened? He needed all his acting ability to hide his shock at his mother and father's gray hair and wrinkles. It had only been a few years since he'd seen them last, hadn't it? Could two people really age so much in so little time?

"Artemus!" his mother cried, almost knocking him over in her eagerness to embrace him as soon as he entered the gates. He did his best to hug her back just as hard and give her a kiss while balancing himself on the crutches. Aunt Maude gently reminded her that Artemus was wounded and should not be handled so roughly, at which reminder Sarah Gordon pulled away as if scalded, nearly knocking him over again, as she began fretting apologetically that she might have hurt him. George Gordon held himself back, as Artemus had known he would, nodding to his son and directing the aide-de-camp on where to carry and deposit Artemus' luggage. The aide performed as instructed, no doubt wondering why such a huge house lacked servants, and fled with the horse cab at the first opportunity. Artemus couldn't blame him. A not-so-subtle gloom suffused the property. No doubt about it, the glory days for the Northern branch of the storied Gordon family were far behind it now.

Negotiating his way gingerly up the front steps to the house with his aunt and his mother hovering on either side of him, Artemus felt glad that his rooms were unfashionably located on the ground floor. He wasn't up to managing the grand central staircase just yet. George Gordon held the door open for him and for just that moment, Arte thought he glimpsed a trace of the kind, considerate man he'd known before their estrangement. Was there yet a hope of reconciliation between them? Arte sure hoped so, but it wasn't going to come at the cost of his freedom.

"Artemus," George greeted him formally with another nod of the head and even a slight smile once they were all inside with no aide to observe. "Welcome home, son."

Son! That sounded a lot better than wastrel or ingrate, especially with the words lazy and irresponsible not tacked on. But Artemus could see the old man looking him over, inspecting him, such as he was, up and down and could not tell if he liked what he was seeing or not.

"Uh, good to be back, Dad," Artemus answered, hoping it wasn't a lie. 'Dad' also sounded better than a few of the things he'd called his father the last time he was here, the memory of which now made him ashamed. And to think he'd chided Jim on more than one occasion for having a hot temper!

Sarah Gordon saw Artemus safely ensconced in one of the front parlor's largest and most comfortable chairs before rushing off to make tea and fetch refreshments. Maude Gordon stayed in the parlor seated between Artemus and George, like a matador prepared to face down twin bulls. It was a fitting analogy, Artemus thought, since this same arena had witnessed an exchange of words as sharp as any horns between the two men five years ago. Hard to believe they'd been on the outs with one another for half a decade, but plenty of events had conspired to keep them apart all that time. It had been worse than awkward – it created a rift more painful than the bullet wound. Artemus wondered if his father had felt that pain as keenly as he did. But of course, that was something he'd been taught long ago that real men don't discuss. Time would just have to tell for them. For right now they sat in uneasy silence, father and son strangers, while waiting for Sarah Gordon to return from the kitchen. Artemus felt a little ashamed that he hadn't leapt in with an offer to help his mother, but then, he wasn't going to be leaping anywhere until the cast came off.

"And how is your young friend Captain West doing?" Aunt Maude asked, willing to make the opening conversational gambit.

"Jim? Oh, he's fine, as far as I know," Arte answered. "He's still on the front lines though. I'm being transferred to Washington as soon as I've healed up enough." _That_ situation still rankled, even if he now understood more of the reasoning behind it. He was being kept nice and safe so he could survive long enough to risk his neck in a very different position. "Desk job, probably." He wrinkled his nose with distaste. No point getting his father's hopes up unnecessarily.

"Well now, young man, it isn't as if you haven't given enough of your own blood." Aunt Maude turned to George. "Artemus is quite the hero, you know."

 _No. He probably didn't know_ , Artemus thought. He'd taken great care to hide details of his war activities from his parents. Through Aunt Maude, they'd have found out about his rank, but not much else – or so he thought.

"In fact, I heard quite a few stories about you while I was in Petersburg," Aunt Maude added.

"You . . . what?" Arte gasped. Ye gods – what might some of those jokers have been telling her while he'd been out like a light? "You know, Aunt Maude, you can't believe everything you-"

"I _do_ know," his aunt remarked primly. "And the stories do you nothing but credit. But to the point I was making, there _are_ other soldiers who can carry on the war effort. What you need right now is plenty of rest and _nothing stressful_." The last words she emphasized were aimed at Artemus' father, along with one of her patented suffer-no-fools stares.

Looking his father over, Artemus felt the tiniest twinge of alarm. If anyone needed a rest and relief from stress, it was George Gordon. He didn't just look older, he looked downright ill. His father's once-ruddy cheeks were pale and sunken, the eyes troubled. Not by his son's presence in the house, surely? If that were the case, Artemus would happily take himself off elsewhere. But Arte had become very good at reading people over the years and instinct told him it wasn't that. There was something more wrong here, but what?

"Are you all right, Dad?"

The elder Gordon's first response was a dry chuckle that did nothing to assuage concern.

"I'm as all right as I can be," he said.

Before Arte could ask anything else, his mother came bustling in with a tray of tea and sandwiches. Momentarily forgetting his cast, Artemus tried to stand up and assist her, only to fall back in the chair with a heavy thump that alarmed her into nearly dropping the tray.

"None of that, you!" Aunt Maude snapped, leaping up to help Sarah Gordon steady the tray. "Or you either!" she commanded George. "It isn't time to go upsetting the game board yet!"

Artemus sighed, but obeyed, as did George. The Gordon men sat more or less patiently while the Gordon women forced them to be waited upon.

 _What a merry little company we are_ , Artemus thought. Just like old times, every Gordon sticking to their own assigned place. The trouble was he, like Great Aunt Maude, had never been very fond of staying in an assigned place.

"So, Artemus," Sarah said brightly before the conversation with his father could resume, "you must tell us all about the war effort! It is going rather well for the Union now, is it not?"

Artemus nodded. He had no intention of giving her any details and he was pretty sure his squeamish mother wouldn't want them anyway. But maybe he could cheer her and his father up with the larger outlines.

"Very well," he said. "Jim was telling me while I was in the infirmary that he thinks the war will be over soon, and the higher ups seem to agree. The aim is in sight." Artemus glimpsed over at his father and saw that these words did indeed seem to cheer his father up a bit. That aim – the permanent end of slavery and secession – was one goal that all the Northern Gordons could agree on. Abolitionist sentiment had brought about a bitter severing with their wealthier, more numerous Southern cousins a generation earlier, but behind it were bedrock-solid principles not to be compromised by any of them. George had done his own share of fighting for that cause as a stalwart friend of William Lloyd Garrison when the latter had come under mob attack, and Artemus bet his father still owned a copy of every single edition of _**The Liberator**_. Artemus had grown up hero-worshipping George for that stalwart stance, but would his father ever know it?

Keeping up appearances must have been even more exhausting than he thought, because Artemus felt himself nodding off as the tea and a sandwich settled in his stomach. They had chatted in all the usual vague generalities while eating, saying much about nothing, and nothing about much. But as soon as George begged off to take his own afternoon nap upstairs, Artemus snapped awake again to question his mother and aunt in private. They seemed prepared for it.

"As all right as he can be?" Artemus gestured in the direction his father had taken as he whispered. Echoes carried all too easily in this big house. "What's wrong with him? How long has he been like this?"

Sarah Gordon sighed and dropped the too-chipper expression she'd been struggling to maintain.

"For the last four months, since Mr. Halverton left the firm," she said. "He's been doing all the work by himself and he just gets so tired."

"Halverton left?" Artemus was surprised. His father's most recent law partner had seemed too young to be retired now. Then again, Artemus had last seen the man years ago, before the big family blowup. Or perhaps Halverton had been hired away by a rival firm. But if that was the case . . . .

Sarah Gordon laid a hand on her son's arm.

"He won't bring it up again, Artemus," she whispered. "He won't. I . . . I made him promise. I don't want you to bring it up either. Please."

 _And I made my own mother cry._

"I promise," he said, wanting to wish away the moisture he saw forming at the corners of her eyes.

"It won't be like it was before," she sniffled. "He knows how hard you've been fighting for your country – we both do. You've made us very proud of you, you know."

 _Then why do I still feel like the black sheep of the family?_

He managed to stand up wobbily without the crutches and maintain his balance as Sarah Gordon all but threw herself into her son's arms and started sobbing on his shoulder. He felt Aunt Maude's hands on his back helping to prop him up and was damn grateful for them. What was it she'd told him so often? Behind every great man . . . . He resisted the urge to laugh even as he concentrated instead on comforting the woman in front of him.

"Mom . . . ."

"I wanted to . . . to go to you after I had th-that awful nightmare," she stammered. "But I'm worried about your father too. So worried . . . . I love you both so much . . . ."

"Shhh. Shhh . . . ." he whispered, patting her on the back and doing his best to soothe her in their reversed roles. "It's all right . . . . I'm here now . . . . and I love you too."

The soothing tone of his voice or his words or his just plain being there seemed to help enough. Sarah Gordon brought herself under control, apologizing for acting like a silly fool while her son assured her she was no such thing. Then she let go, and with another muted apology, picked up the tea things and carried them off into the kitchen.

"Aunt Maude," Arte whispered as she helped him back into the chair, "why didn't you tell me?"

"I didn't know," she said. "George wasn't like that when I left for Petersburg. It was your mother I was worried about. She had become frantic after the nightmare she'd had and I wanted to reassure her. I'd no idea how prophetic her dream had been. You gave us quite a fright, young man."

"Gave myself one too," he admitted. "But what exactly is wrong with Dad?"

"What exactly I don't know either. He won't admit to anything, at least to Sarah or me. Nothing but a minor complaint here or there, but anyone can see he's not well. Still stubborn as ever though. You're a man. Perhaps he'll tell you what he won't tell us."

"You expect _me_ to be able to talk to him?" Artemus would never have accused his beloved great aunt of being out of her mind, but . . . .

"You can, you know, if you try." Aunt Maude patted him gently on the cheek. "You two had a very good relationship at one time before things got in the way."

 _Yeah_. Things like his father wanting him to give up all his other prospects in life to settle down and become a lawyer and a good brood stallion making lots of little Gordons. Not that Artemus had any dislike of female company – quite the opposite! But there had been only one young woman he'd ever wanted enough to take for a spouse, and he didn't even know where she was anymore. His father's attempts to arrange 'suitable' matches for him had been nothing short of suitably embarrassing. And he wasn't going to marry for money or fertility, no matter how much his family needed both.

"Aunt Maude, I'm not cut out to be what he wants me to be."

"I know that," she said softly. "He knows it too, now. And you heard what your mother said. He isn't going to try to persuade you again."

"Persuasion. Is that what you'd call it?"

"Don't you start with me, Artemus!" She shook a finger at him. "You did your part too as I recall! Now you both have to pick up the pieces." She coughed and looked up to make sure Sarah hadn't returned to overhear them. "You could begin by being honest with him."

"Honest?"

She looked uncharacteristically embarrassed herself before she began speaking again.

"Artemus," she whispered, "not all of the stories I heard about you in Petersburg came from other men. One of them came from you."

What on earth could she be referring to by that? Arte racked his brain trying to think what he possibly could have told her. But her next words terrified him.

"You had a fever, dear, and while it was on you . . . well, you knew I was there and you . . . told me something."

 _Oh, dear Lord in heaven_ . . . .

"What . . . what did I say?"

"Only the truth that you've already kept hidden for too long," she said. "You told me what you _wished_ you could tell your father. That your acting career wasn't just all about acting."

So that was it. Not a betrayal of Union secrets – only his own.

"Why didn't you tell us?" she asked. "You know your parents wouldn't have disapproved of your smuggling slaves to freedom. Your father would have been proud of what you were doing! We all would have!"

How could she not understand?

"You make it sound so simple."

"Isn't it?"

Artemus could only shake his head and wonder at her naivete.

"Aunt Maude, maybe it's different now because of the war and everything that's happened. But that doesn't change the fact that what I was doing was _illegal_. I kept all of you out of it to keep you safe."

Now Aunt Maude began shaking her head at him.

"Since when have we Gordons been so faint of heart, young man? Did you really think so little of us and our ability that we needed to be shielded from the truth?"

"The truth isn't what I was worrying about," Artemus snorted. "Aunt Maude, I didn't just work for the Underground Railroad – I got _caught_ working for the Underground Railroad." He paused, hoping that the import of those words sank in. "I managed to escape, obviously, but I was a Wanted Man in some parts of the South. Maybe I still am. I _had_ to keep you out of it for your sakes and mine! Do you think my argument with Dad is the only reason I didn't see you or my own mother for years? Do you want to know who was hunting me down there? Do you?" He'd tell her whether she wanted to know or not. "Our own dear, dear cousins, that's who! Remember ol' cousin John B. who's gone generaling for the Confederacy? I heard him say if he ever caught me, he'd hang me personally and then chop me up and feed me to his dogs! He meant every word of it too! Is that what you'd like me to tell them?"

He'd been staring down at the floor as he uttered these words, and regretted the graphic detail when he looked up and saw how pale she had turned. Aunt Maude was shaking, and he was too. Cousin John wasn't a man for idle threats and Artemus, disguised as one of the man's servant staff, had heard him utter the threat directly.

"Maybe I should have told you," he whispered, "if only because there might have been a watch put on this house. I'm not worried about that anymore, with the war bringing 'em more trouble than I ever could by myself. But you see now, don't you, why I didn't want any of you in harm's way? And as for Dad wanting me for a junior law partner . . . ." He snorted again. "Even if I wanted to practice law – _which I don't!_ – how good would that have been for his law practice if _he_ got caught harboring a family fugitive from the South's kangaroo courts and alleged justice?"

"Do you really think he wouldn't have stood up for you just as he stood up for his friend William? That carried just as much risk for him back then. Your mother stood by him through it all too. She isn't as faint of heart as you might think." Aunt Maude was still pale, still shaking a little, but there was nothing except iron Gordon resolution in her face. "When it was their own flesh and blood, do you think they'd have cared?"

" _I_ cared."

Aunt Maude, ramrod straight, put both of her hands on Artemus' shoulders and pinned him with a look that he hadn't seen since childhood but that he'd never forgotten.

"You must tell him the truth, Artemus."

"What, now? While he's ill?"

"Especially now. While there's time." She closed her eyes, breathed deeply, and coughed again, and it didn't seem to be just for emphasis. "None of us know how much time we are appointed. I haven't felt so well myself these past few weeks, to be honest. But your father deserves to know the truth about his son. He _needs_ to know the truth, while there's still an opportunity to tell him." She walked back over to a chair and sank into it. "It isn't as if you lack for courage. Give an old woman the consolation of knowing that her two favorite nephews have cleared the air at last. Please."

Nothing stressful, she'd said only a couple of hours ago, and now she was asking him to do the most stressful thing he could possibly imagine. Facing another Rebel charge would have seemed easier and more familiar, but could she be right? For that matter, had he ever known Great Aunt Maude to be wrong? She said he wasn't lacking for courage. He wanted to believe that was true at least.

Dinner that night went much as the late, informal lunch had, with small talk that tried to cover over any impending storms. But nothing could help Artemus escape the whirlwind going on inside himself. He was glad that this second meal was so bland and simple because he definitely had butterflies in his stomach. Watching his father eat dinner though, looking him over carefully, subtly, like the trained spy he was, he knew Aunt Maude was right. Whatever blandishments and excuses he gave, something was seriously wrong with George Gordon. Artemus had dreaded encountering his father again, but while his father had remained at a distance, almost an abstraction. Now that he was face to face with the real man, Artemus was suddenly terrified of losing him. Was George's condition that serious? There might be only one way to find out. That was the way that a man 'not lacking in courage' had to take.

Artemus waited until the meal was finished and the Gordons once again seemed ready to go to their assigned places. If his father stayed true to form, he'd be heading to his den – also thankfully on the first floor – to go over paperwork or curl up with a good book, a pipe and some brandy before bedtime. With a silent nod of encouragement from Aunt Maude, Artemus got up from the table at the same time as his father, intent on following him to that lion's den. He heard his mother call to him and hesitated, but Aunt Maude put a hand on Sarah's arm and gestured him on.

 _Once more into the breach, dear friends!_

Facing somewhat less daunting odds than King Henry V at Harfleur (he hoped), Artemus crutched his way into the study, which didn't seem to have changed a bit in five years. George Gordon was surprised, but made no objection as Artemus lowered himself into what used to be "his" chair. How to begin, how to begin?

"Dad," he said, "there's something I have to tell you . . . ."


	4. Find A Way

Today was the day Captain Artemus Gordon had been waiting for. He almost couldn't bear to wait any longer. The _other_ day he'd been waiting for had come just five days earlier with the surrender of Confederate General Robert E. Lee and his army at Appomattox. His friend Jim hadn't been there to witness it, still involved in the fight against Mosby's Raiders as he was, but Artemus had gotten a full accounting from several of his other compatriots by letter already – amazing how fast communication travelled these days. He'd shared every crumb of that joyous news with his family. Now it was a different sort of crumb he anticipated seeing, and soon.

"Be careful not to break it again getting this thing off, won't you?" Arte chuckled, stretching the hated leg cast out for what he hoped would be the very last time.

"I'll try my best," Dr. Whitmeier said sarcastically.

 _My, what a cynical lot the medical profession attracts_ , Artemus thought. _They're almost as bad as soldiers._

The doctor was as good as his word, and with careful scissoring and cutting divided the cast into several pieces and removed each piece one at a time, rather than lifting a sledgehammer as Arte had visualized, until the floor of the physician's office was covered with tiny bits of plaster and the leg was revealed to the world once more.

"How does it feel?" Whitmeier asked, as he sat back to survey his patient.

"All right . . . ." Artemus murmured. With caution, he began moving his freed foot this way and that. It felt a little strange, stiff and weak, but that was the result of having been kept immobilized for so long. He'd been home for over a month now, and the cast had been on him for over a month before that.

"Take it slowly and use the crutches," Whitmeier instructed, encouraging him to stand. "Does it feel like it can support you?"

Artemus was almost afraid to find out. Gingerly, still holding on to both crutches, Artemus put his weight onto the left foot and the left foot held. There was a bit of a dull ache, but that was all. Under the family physician's watchful gaze, he took one step, then another, then another. He lifted up the crutch tips and took a few more steps without using them at all. He was doing it – walking under his own steam once more. He wanted to whoop and holler and dance a little jig right here in the plaster dust, but also felt that would be the stupidest thing he could possibly do. He settled for walking in a small circle around the office without falling over.

"Well, Doc? What's the verdict?" he asked. "Am I cured?"

"Of being a nuisance? Never," Whitmeier smiled, but he looked pleased. "Now I suggest you hold on to one or both of the crutches for at least a day and then switch over to a cane until you get your land legs back. Do you have a cane at home or do you need to borrow one?"

"I own one." Sarah Gordon had kept his room like a preserved museum while he'd been gone that half decade, and Artemus knew right where his old sword cane was in the closet. That probably wasn't the type of cane the doctor had intended, but it would do, and Artemus almost relished the thought of getting it out and brandishing it like a swagger stick. Good thing the Confederacy had come to its senses and begun its surrender – ol' Captain Artemus Gordon would be ready to take the field again soon!

The thought sobered him though. The amount of furlough he had been granted was generous, but it was almost up, and that would mean leaving his family again, this time reluctantly.

"Any luck with your other task?" Dr. Whitmeier asked.

"Nothing," Arte shook his head. The Gordon family physician had been one of the first people he'd tried interrogating when it came to the matter of his father's health after his father had continued to ply him with vague generalities. If anyone should have known what was wrong with George, it was his longtime doctor. But George wasn't confiding in or consulting with Whitmeier either. Rather, the good doctor was hoping Artemus could supply him with any pertinent details, wondering himself after Sarah and Maude Gordon had both come to query him separately without George's knowledge. It was damn frustrating. It hadn't been easy for Artemus to have his heart-to-heart with George about the hidden aspects of what he'd been up to years ago. The least his father could have done in exchange was open up with what was ailing him. No dice.

Revealing the truth about his antebellum activities had brought Artemus one big payoff, however. Aunt Maude had been right about that much. The old hatchet was finally well and truly buried, and he and his father seemed to be getting along now like they had in the old days before the quarrels started. This had certainly been a relief not just to Artemus, but to his mother and aunt as well. If only George didn't seem so . . . faded. More and more it was as if he were a stove in which the fire was slowly going out. At least they'd persuaded him to take a few more days off of work, the better to become reacquainted with his son before Arte had to return to Washington. As elusive as George remained, Artemus wouldn't have traded a minute of those precious days spent in his father's company, never knowing how many more such days he would ever have again. Sometimes George seemed buoyed up, as he had when he'd learned about his son's Underground Railroad activities. But whatever dismissive explanation George gave, he moved slowly and tired easily. He appeared to be in pain too, at least when he thought nobody was watching him.

 _No wonder I'm an actor_ , Artemus thought. _I come from a family of them!_

Now that the cast was off, Artemus was in a much better position to continue the important business of spying out his father's troubles. Surveillance was much easier when you didn't make clunking sounds everywhere you walked. But there wouldn't be much time.

"Well, best of luck to you," Dr. Whitmeier said, shaking his hand. "Try not to break it again yourself, won't you?"

"I'll do my very best to avoid it!" Arte promised sincerely. "From here on out, I'm sticking strictly to getting shot at!"

With the war winding down, he might not have to worry about that either – at least until he took up his new career, assuming the President still thought he was a man for the job. That was one secret even his Great Aunt Maude wouldn't ferret out of him – but another thing he wished he could have told his father. Abraham Lincoln had trusted him not to give out any details of their discussion, and Artemus wasn't about to betray that trust. But wouldn't George have been impressed to know that his son had met and was thought highly of by the Great Liberator himself? Too bad Artemus didn't dare ask Lincoln for an autograph for his father – he wouldn't want George swooning anyway. At least he'd be able to walk in the front door on his own two feet again. That felt beyond good.

Sarah Gordon gave a happy cry as she saw Artemus walking up the front steps entirely under his own power and without a cast on his leg. Aunt Maude and his father came running too, or the nearest equivalent of it that they could manage. In honor of the occasion, they made a more elaborate ceremony of lunch than usual with a bottle of champagne from the family's dwindled reserves, drinking a toast both to Artemus' return to health and the Confederacy's defeat. With Lee's surrender, the rest of the South's forces were giving up the fight as well, one by one. It was messy, but the end of the war would only be a matter of days or weeks now. They could predict that in confidence and joy.

"Truly a Good Friday!" George exclaimed, raising his glass for a second round of toasts.

Artemus had nearly forgotten about the approaching Easter holiday, but it was an apt metaphor. So many sacrifices had been made, so many lives lost, as Lincoln had noted, to give this country a new birth of freedom. Whatever the perils, Arte looked forward to helping win the peace too. He raised his own toast to his friend Jim West and all the brave boys still in the field conducting the final campaigns and mop-up operations.

"Hear, hear!" Aunt Maude seconded.

"And what will you do once it's really all over, dear?" Sarah asked her son, remembering too late what a potentially risky topic of conversation this was. She put a hand over her mouth in sudden alarm, but George, rather than rising to the opportunity as he would have in the past, simply waved her concern away and said nothing.

"Oh, I've, uh, got some irons in the fire," Artemus answered. "But let's win the war first, as my friend Jim would say."

"A sensible attitude," Aunt Maude nodded. "That young man has a good head on his shoulders."

 _And I'll bet he's had several gorgeous ones there as well_ , Arte thought, recalling a discussion he and Jim had recently had regarding Aunt Maude's keen powers of observation. No doubt about it, Aunt Maude would have made a spy of the first water, just like a remarkable Miss Warne he'd met once or twice before.

The rest of the afternoon passed pleasantly enough. George seemed to have a bit more energy than usual, having taken another afternoon off from work at the office. Perhaps he'd come to some sort of resolution or decision about even the unthinkable – retirement? Artemus wondered if the family could afford it and wished he'd been sending more of his money home, not that even Captains were paid as regularly as they should be. From now on, he'd better plan on sending every available penny to his family. And if George's ailments took him out of the picture . . . . Well, best not to think about that. For now it was enough to enjoy his father's company, still amazed that he could, as if the contrary expectations, confrontations and bad times had never happened. They all turned in early, but when Artemus Gordon went to bed, he couldn't help but feel that all was right with the world.

[WWWWWWWWWWWWWW]

They'd intended to sleep in the next day, but the noise coming from the street aroused them – shouts, sounds of great consternation and dismay, clangings and alarm. Artemus couldn't imagine what the cause of all the ruckus was, but his soldier's experience caused him to react by half-dressing hastily, arming himself with his pistol and rushing out of his bedroom, walking cane be damned, to check on his loved ones and meet the enemy if necessary. Aunt Maude and his mother, still in their night-clothes, were rushing down the central staircase. Artemus cursed under his breath as his mother told him that George had already been up – always the early-riser still – and must have gone out of the house already when the commotion started. He headed straight for the front door but didn't have time to reach it before his stricken father came stumbling back in, white as a sheet, with the ghastliest expression Artemus had ever seen on him.

"George! What's wrong?" Sarah cried.

Artemus leapt forward, glad that his still-sore leg held while he caught George as his father fell. From the older Gordon's hand slipped a news-sheet and when Artemus saw the headline printed on it, he almost dropped his father in shock himself. It couldn't be . . . .

It just couldn't be . . . .

[WWWWWWWWWWWWWWW]

John Wilkes Booth's single bullet killed at least two men. That's how Artemus knew he'd forever think of it. If only he had been there at Ford's Theater that night. If only he could have stopped Booth somehow . . . . If only the President were still alive and his ailing father still alive . . . .

Whatever else had been weakening George Gordon, the assassination of a man he'd admired to the point of religious worship struck the final blow. Artemus had carried him to his bed while Aunt Maude shouted down the crowd to fetch the doctor, but there was nothing that could be done. Now George was gone along with his hero, much too soon. It was so unfair. How could anything ever make sense again after this?

In the days that followed, the unspeakable, nightmare days of mourning, of a wounded country's grief, Artemus would ask himself that question over and over again.

If only . . . .

And then Artemus had to learn his true measure as blow piled on top of blow. In consideration of the loss his family had just suffered, the remaining Powers That Be told Captain Gordon to take whatever time he needed to arrange affairs. No need to go hurrying back to Washington now. No more War Between The States to fight. Probably no upcoming job offer either. After all, the man who had interviewed him was dead. The need might still exist, but would there be recognition of that need? Lincoln had been a visionary, but no one called Andrew Johnson that. They called him plenty of other things, but not a visionary.

Artemus would miss that job he didn't have yet, and not just for its excitement and Lincoln's worthy cause. He and the two aged women now dependent on him needed the money worse than he'd realized. The Gordon family was broke as well as broken. George Gordon might have taken his aches and pains with him to the grave, but there were some secrets that could not be kept hidden after he was dead. George's law partner Halverton, as it turned out, hadn't quit the firm – he'd _fled_ it, after clearing out the practice's accounts by means of embezzlement. Small wonder George had been working so many hours these past several months while explaining to no one. He'd been driving himself into the ground like a tent peg, working his way into an early grave because of a rat who stole from the partner who'd trusted him. It made Artemus burn, but there was nothing that could be done and no concealing the bitter truth from his poor mother now – or the consequences. The great Gordon manor, the home of generations of his ancestors, the no-longer magic castle, would have to be sold.

 _My home!_ he wailed silently to himself. _No –_ our _home!_

It hadn't been a decision he made alone. He was grateful that his mother was as strong as Aunt Maude had said. As hard as all this was on him, Artemus couldn't even imagine how hard it was on her. He'd lost his father, but she – she had lost her soul-mate and now was about to lose the grand residence she'd lived in for so long, and that Aunt Maude had lived in for far longer. Yet both women bore it with stalwart courage and resolve enough to put Generals to shame. While he still felt stunned as he, his mother and his aunt negotiated the sale of their ancestral home and most of its furnishings to a local millionaire and _his_ family, Sarah Gordon was the one who held firm and tried to buck him up instead.

"It wouldn't be home without your father, dear," she said, wiping away his tears and her own when they were in private. He knew she was right.

The sale would be enough to provide for her and Aunt Maude, perhaps with some extras they hadn't enjoyed in years, as they moved into a nice, sensible apartment in a nice, sensible Manhattan building that housed some of his maternal relatives already. It wasn't as if Artemus had planned to move back to the old house when the war was done, after all. And yet . . . .

At least he'd had that opportunity to make peace with his father before George died, thanks to Great Aunt Maude. How terrible it would have been for all of them if he hadn't been given that. Hard to believe it was his near-death experience at the hands of a particularly hated and hating enemy that had led to it. All the regretted words could not be taken back, the years lost would remain forever lost – but he was oh, so glad that they'd made up for it in the end.

But just when Artemus thought he could begin to cope with the hammer blow grief of his father's death, fate had yet one more unbearable cruelty in store for the Gordons. Aunt Maude fell down with another fit of coughing during the move and Dr. Whitmeier, after being brought to attend her, gave Artemus and Sarah the terrible truth. The woman who had been born back when America's Founding Fathers still walked the Earth could not stay with them much longer. Taking turns by her bedside, Sarah and Artemus did everything they could to keep her comfortable, to keep her company while she too was slipping away. Great Aunt Maude being Great Aunt Maude, she didn't want them fussing and fretting over her and wearing themselves out as she was dying, but Artemus wasn't about to give her any choice in the matter.

"You stayed by me when I needed you most," he told her. "Don't you think for one moment I'm going to abandon you now!"

"Dear Artemus," she coughed, gazing up at him fondly, "I know you won't. But I'm afraid I have to leave you."

There could be no lies, no denials between them. The end was at hand, and if she was determined to be brave about it, then for her sake he would be too. He had to be 'not lacking in courage' even while his heart was breaking. He'd done his best to keep her amused with jokes and stories through the pain. Now he held her hand and was amazed she still had the strength to squeeze it, she was so pale and shrunken.

"Don't be sad," she told him. "I've lived a good long time. It hasn't been easy . . . staying when I lost so many dear ones. But I don't regret it." She smiled, in spite of another fit of coughing, and reached up to place her free hand on his cheek one more time. "You are going to have a wonderful life ahead of you, Artemus . . . I am sure of it. So many adventures still to come . . . ." It hurt her to talk, and to breathe, but still she smiled, with only a slight tinge of sadness. "I just . . . wish I could be a part of it."

"You will be," he said. "I'll make you part of it."

Her expression became one of puzzlement.

"I'll find a way," he promised. "Isn't that what we Gordons always do? I'll find a way."

The pledge seemed to satisfy her, and the smile returned as she closed her eyes and fell asleep, still holding onto his hand. Sometime in that night, she didn't wake up.

[WWWWWWWWWWWWWWW]

"Thanks, Jim," Arte said quietly as they walked together from the graveside. Sarah was still surrounded by a crowd of relatives, mourners and well-wishers. It was gratifying to see just how many people had turned out for Aunt Maude's funeral, how many lives she'd touched, but right now he wanted some time alone with a friend he hadn't expected to see again so soon.

"You don't have to thank me for coming." Jim fidgeted with the cavalry hat in his hands. "I wanted to be here for you, buddy. I heard about your father too." The young captain cast his eyes down at the ground. "Sorry I couldn't make it to that one."

"Don't apologize. What you were doing was more important," Arte sighed. "You'd have caught hell from him if you'd broken off the fight just to attend his burial. He was like that, you know."

"I'll take your word for it." They both looked back toward the fresh grave. "She was quite a lady," Jim whispered.

"That she was. That she sure was." Arte had to struggle to keep his voice even. He had cried a Mississippi in private for her and for his Dad, but he didn't want to cry in front of his friend. Men didn't do that. Though if he could have trusted anyone to understand, it would have been this man. "God, Jim, I'm going to miss them so much . . . ."

Jim nodded.

"Is there anything I can do for you?" he asked.

"Ha! I'm the one who should be asking you that." Artemus was dressed in an appropriate black mourning suit – its second use – but Jim had arrived in his full formal officer's uniform to pay his respects. "Or maybe asking the Army. I've healed. I can report back to duty any time." It would be a wrench to leave his mother, but her own relatives had embraced her back into the fold as if she'd never moved out.

"War's over," Jim said. "It's really, really over. You'll be getting your discharge papers soon."

"Terrific," he responded without enthusiasm. What was he going to do to support himself and his widowed mother? He could only shake his head. "Don't think I'd make a very good lawyer."

"It'd be a waste of your talents, that's for sure." Jim looked him up and down sharply. "You know, there's a job still waiting for you in Washington if you want it," he murmured.

"Is there?"

"You know the one I mean," Jim whispered. "It's a deal. He signed it into law before he died."

So. Now _that_ was a surprise.

"It wasn't left up to Johnson?"

Jim shook his head and gave a snort. Neither of them had much use for Johnson.

"No. And they still want you. Arte, they _need_ you. And you need a job. Think about it." Jim fidgeted with his hat again. "Sorry to be mentioning it at a time like this. That isn't why I came. But your country still needs you, buddy."

"It's good to be needed, I guess," Arte mumbled. "Thanks for telling me. Seriously." A thought occurred to him. "What about you? Will you be working for . . . ?"

"Not yet." Jim placed the cavalry hat back on his head. "That's the goal, but the Army still has some special jobs for me too."

"How much time do I have to decide?"

"I don't know," Jim answered honestly, slipping Arte a card with a contact listing before donning his cavalry gloves again.

Arte had been astonished that Jim had come all this way for Aunt Maude's funeral, and it looked like he wouldn't be staying. Though as Jim had said, Maude Gordon had been quite a lady. They turned to face each other then, standing straight and captain to captain, gave each other a salute of the utmost respect. There was no need to say anything else, but as they ended the formality, smiling, Arte was the first one to break the silence.

"Captain West, I have a feeling we'll be seeing each other again before long."

"Captain Gordon, I hope you're right."

Then, with the clasp of a firm handshake and a couple of shoulder claps, they parted ways once more. Watching the younger man leave, Artemus could only wonder what their futures would bring.

[WWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW]

Two weeks! Two entire weeks!

Where the hell had he been? If Arte hadn't been so relieved almost to the point of crying, he'd have cheerfully strangled the familiar figure walking in through the Wanderer's back entrance. As is, he had no intention of letting Jim off the hook for the miserable days he'd spent searching and worrying. Two weeks of fearing for his overconfident partner's life, two weeks of imagining Jim turning his back on the wrong person. Too many sleepless nights wondering if he was going to be called on to identify a body in the morgue.

"Well where have you been?" he demanded. "I hunted all over for you, two whole weeks! That's not like you!"

Suddenly Jim gave a tiny gasp and reached for his left eye in pain. In that instant, Arte's anger was replaced with concern.

"What's the matter?"

"Something's in my eye."

Making Jim sit down and submit to an examination, Arte checked the offended eye up and down, only a little grumpily. He couldn't find any foreign object in it, though something nagged at him as he searched. The eye was fully responsive, healthy and unobstructed to all appearances, same color as always, and yet something about the iris seemed different. He couldn't quite place what it was. Whatever. Puzzled, he sat back and let Jim do the same.

"I can't see a thing," he shrugged.

"Seems to have gone away."

"Now would you mind telling me where you've been?"

"Not much to tell," Jim equivocated.

"C'mon, quit stalling!"

"The next day I went to the governor's office, there was a message for me from Washington," Jim said.

"That was thirteen days ago, Jim!"

"That's right. They gave me a new assignment."

"That's impossible!" Arte protested. "Washington couldn't have had a new assignment!" A mission he hadn't been told about? He already _knew_ that explanation wasn't right. But why would Jim lie about it unless . . . .

Unless it was better not to wonder such things while he had a gun pointed at him. Arte felt a distinct chill run up his spine as he stared into the barrel of his own revolver, aimed at his chest. Jim had grabbed the gun from where Arte had left it, the holster carelessly draped, and drawn on him. Almost as disconcerting was the fact that Jim – if that's who this was – had drawn and was holding it left-handed. Jim was right-handed. Either he was acting very strange or he was a stranger. Arte didn't know what had given him that idea, but he'd better think quickly.

"Your gun isn't balanced." Jim observed, still aiming.

"I mean, why wouldn't they have told me about it?" Arte asked. _Act normal, act normal!_

"There wasn't time," Jim said, as if that was a perfectly adequate explanation. "I got orders to move immediately."

"Oh, I see," Arte stood up, nodding, as if nothing out of the ordinary was taking place, and sauntered over nonchalantly, trying to get out of the direct range of fire. "On, uh, on what?"

"Remember Dr. Miguelito Loveless?"

"The little wizard? How could I ever forget him?"

"He and Voltaire escaped from jail months ago."

"I thought the two of them were shot while trying to escape." _C'mon, Jim, put the gun down!_

"They weren't shot. They got away."

"Ah," Arte said. "And within the last two weeks you've had orders from Washington to track them down again." Orders to take down two of the most dangerous criminals they'd ever faced without his partner or any backup. Now there was a cock and bull story if ever he'd heard one. But Arte picked up a packet of papers and rolled it in his hands as if he wasn't even slightly nervous.

"That's right."

"And?"

"And the only thing remaining is for me to go into town and tell the city officials where they're hiding. They should pick them up without any trouble."

That sounded even cock and bullier. Since when did Jim West just report to city law enforcement officials like a good little boy and leave the dangerous work to others? And apprehending a fiend like Loveless and his giant ape of a henchman would be _very_ dangerous. Without any trouble? Really? One bold-faced lie after another. This man _looked_ like Jim West, his voice _sounded_ just like Jim's, but the body language, the chilly, flippant evasiveness. Arte definitely felt like he was talking to a stranger now. But if this man wasn't the real Jim West, who was he? And more importantly, where then was Arte's partner?

"Fine. I'll go with you." _Right_.

"No. You stay here and get things ready. I'll be back tonight and we'll shove off."

Arte was relieved that 'Jim' was buying his act enough to have stopped holding the gun on him and handed it over instead. But there was one more tactic he just had to try. A test to see if he might spot a familiar mannerism. Jim had always sympathized with him when it came to Arte's family, but lately, whenever Arte quoted one of Aunt Maude's many platitudes at him, Jim would just roll his eyes.

"Boy, as my Great Aunt Maude always says, enthusiasm's a sure sign a man loves his work."

'Jim' didn't roll his eyes at all. Instead, he asked in chipper fashion a question Arte would never have expected.

"How is Aunt Maude?"

 _You ought to know, pal! You attended her funeral over six years ago!_

 _Act normal! Smile!_

"Oh, she's fine, Jim. Just fine."

"Good!" 'Jim' said as he headed toward the door. "Give her my best."

"Sure, Jim, sure." _Keep smiling!_

"See you later, Artemus!"

"Take care!" _And you'll definitely be seeing me later, whoever you are!_ But he'd make darn sure 'Jim' didn't know he was being followed, not until he'd let Arte to wherever the real Jim West might be.

Feeling the measure of his pistol, Arte flipped it in his hand. He knew the gun was perfectly balanced – if you weren't trying to hold it left-handed, that is. Arte, like Jim, was right-handed, and he'd been taking his frustration out with target practice while he'd been searching these past two weeks. He gave the Doppelganger a few seconds head start, watching him through the Wanderer's windows. Luckily, he'd had his horse already saddled and ready to go when he'd been interrupted by the telegraph message from Washington that he'd done his best to keep 'Jim' from seeing: HAVE HEARD NO WORD FROM WEST FOR TWO WEEKS IS ANYTHING WRONG REQUEST IMMEDIATE ANSWER.

He'd get Washington that answer all right . . . .

[WWWWWWWWWWWWWW]

The sparks had begun to fly before Jim had even pulled the last lever. This whole building seemed likely to blow – but would that be enough to short out the electrified fence that had been keeping him trapped in this nightmarish ghost town? Jim grabbed Marie's hand as they ran up the stairs toward the exit door. For a terrifying split second, Jim wondered if that door was locked and if he might have doomed them both. But he needn't have worried – just as they reached it, the door was opened for them by a familiar figure.

"Artemus! How'd you get here?"

"My Great Aunt Maude sent me! C'mon!"

Jim didn't have time to figure out what his partner meant. With sparks flying all around them, he and Marie followed Artemus out into the fresh air and sunshine. _Good old Arte!_ Jim thought. He hadn't been fooled after all – and he'd found a way to get through the fence to come to his partner's rescue once again. Now to make their escape . . . .

[WWWWWWWWWWWWW]

 _What a day, what a day . . . ._

Artemus slumped down, utterly spent and exhausted, happy, relieved, aggravated and grateful all at the same time. He was more than a little annoyed at Jim for pulling that scary and damn-fool dangerous prank on him with a loaded gun. He bet Jim would be might chagrinned at it too when Arte had a chance to discuss it with him later. But no harm had come of it – _luckily_ -and Arte supposed he could forgive his best friend for being punchy and careless after such an ordeal. If those two weeks had been worrisome and sleepless for Arte, what must they have been like for poor James West? Subjected to electric shocks and restraints, caged, under constant threat of death – even shown his own tombstone – and an evil, surgically altered henchman going around impersonating him . . . . It must have been terrible beyond words. Arte would forgive him all right – _after_ Jim got some rest and that firearms safety lecture first! The most important thing though was that Jim – the _real_ Jim West – was still alive and safe once more, and that the rotten, mad Dr. Loveless and his equally rotten assistants Janus and Voltaire were all behind bars and their evil plot foiled. Yes, Artemus could feel mighty grateful for that!

So while Jim got some badly needed TLC from the lovely Marie (with a couple of sentries on duty – Arte wasn't taking any chances on carriages equipped with kidnappers and knockout gas again), he himself intended to turn in early and get the first good night's sleep he'd had in a fortnight. But before he did that, he had one last party to thank. Alone on board the Wanderer, Arte went to a concealed, locking cubby hole that was his own secret place for stashing his most personal items. He removed from within a small wooden box lined with velvet and one very precious object, one he'd never seen his Great Aunt Maude without. Before she'd died, Aunt Maude had given Artemus the obsidian necklace that had once been given to her by Captain Phineas Cooper – a sparkling keepsake meant to match her shining black curls. At her request, she'd been buried with the silver locket containing a snip of her true love's own hair, but she'd insisted her nephew keep the necklace for when he found his own special someone. Arte didn't know when or if that day would ever come but gazing at the necklace always made him feel closer to her somehow.

"You really came through for me today, you old darling," he said, holding the dark beads. "Thank you so much. I couldn't have done it without you."

Was it just his wishful thinking or did the pieces of obsidian feel warm and welcoming to the touch? It didn't matter anymore that he was speaking to a dead woman rather than a beloved flesh-and-blood person. He knew that Great Aunt Maude and his father were still watching over him from a much better place.

Artemus knew, too, that today probably wasn't the last time he and his Secret Service partner would have to reckon with Dr. Miguelito Loveless. The menacing little wizard had escaped once and would no doubt try to get his revenge yet again. Nor was Loveless the only mad villain or criminal mastermind they'd have to cope with, not by a long set of train tracks. Abraham Lincoln had been right – America was beset by troubles and rogues a-plenty. But along with Jim West, he'd face down every one of them and serve and protect the country he loved.

Artemus was a Gordon, after all.

He'd find a way.


End file.
